The Rising Fist
by Icy Mike Molson
Summary: For centuries the orcs of the Khairaithi Mountains have venerated their One Eyed god with glorious war and brutal raids.  But now one chieftain questions whether or not such ways will be the downfall of his people...
1. Foreword

Wizards of the Coast owns the general concept of Dungeons and Dragons, even if they sold out 3.5 in order to make Warcraft on Paper. I mean, Fourth Edition. However, the _New World_ and its kingdoms, concepts, and characters are all mine.

A couple of years back, I sat down and wrote _Orcish Vise_. It as supposed to be about the humans stuck between a pair of warring orcish tribes, with a pair of rangers and the local villagers taking precedence.

Libor and Oleksandr put an end to that idea. It's the only thing they've ever collaborated on.

The funny thing was how the orcs came to life as I wrote, demanding more and more time from the humans that were supposed to be the main characters. In the end, the orcs of the Khairathi Mountains had come alive, telling me of their culture and their bravery. Finally, they decided that if I was to write stories, it would be about their glorious deeds and their mighty battles against the cowardly, unscarred races around them. My wife supported their idea; her favorite characters from _Orcish Vise_ happened to be the orcs.

And so, after over a year of toying with the ideas, of carefully examining the tribes and at times losing my way among other stories, games I've run and played, I've come to find a more sustained writing interest in my orcs. Hopefully, the orcs of the Khairathi Mountains will give better form to the vagaries of the _Monster Manual_ and show them as a true culture. Perhaps there ill not be as much combat as one would expect from a novel dealing with orcs, but my ultimately failed attempt at _Diablo_ fanfiction has shown me that sometimes, if the characters are good enough, combat is not the end all of fantasy novels. Sometimes the true interest can fall on the characters themselves, and the combat, while fun, is more of an afterthought.

In the end, Libor will tell me if I'm right or wrong. And if I'm right, maybe some day I will be professionally published….


	2. Caradoc of the Pines

** I**

For over two centuries he had lived quietly, tending to the western stretches of the Argent Forest where it bordered the towering Khairathi Mountains. Here, well beyond the knowledge of the coastal human kingdoms and rather isolated both from the goblins of Trzebin in the north and the barbaric orcs and humans of the southern Khairathi peaks, he had nurtured the earth, using the powers of the Mother to bring a vibrance of life to his pine and oak forests that brought the full power of the Earth Mother to the fore. Pines grew straight and tall to undreamed of heights, while the oaks spread wide along creeks and brooks. Deer fed in verdant pastures, while the wolves and bears of the forest ate their fill. Life and death were a part of the Mother's balance, a balance that he had worked so hard to maintain and encourage throughout his long life.

It seemed to be over now.

Caradoc of the Pines could barely open his eyes as they dumped him on a rough stone floor. Guttering torches offered illumination beyond his swollen, bloodied face, while the disgusting, guttural tongue of the orcs assaulted his ears past the roar of his blood pounding through his veins. They had caught him unaware, but still he had sent over a dozen of them to their vicious one eyed god. In the end they had been too much for his power, and they had overwhelmed his animal protectors. Too long he had neglected the arts of combat; the orcs had made him pay for that mistake.

One of the orcs spoke, a commanding, even voice despite the rude inflections of his native language. Two of Caradoc's captors grasped him roughly by his shoulders, aggravating broken bones and painful bruises as they forced him to stand on his feet. The druid bit back a cry of agony as they shoved him forward a step, refusing to show weakness in the presence of the brutish raiders around him.

The rough stone floor was the base of a crude temple, lit not only by torches but also large braziers of glowing coals. Ahead of him, a towering statue of an orc, reaching almost to the high ceiling, bore a spear and only one glittering crimson eye. At the feet of the powerful icon, an orc with a disturbing resemblance to the statue moved forward, wielding a long, heavy spear in one hand. While many of the orcs wore a dirty, patchwork array of armor, this one's chain shirt glittered faintly beneath the wolf fur cape he wore, while his two cold, amber eyes regarded the priest with open disdain.

"You… are druid. Yes?"

Caradoc's mouth dropped open involuntarily. The orcish chieftain before him actually spoke the Argent language?

"I am," Caradoc finally replied. He would not deny his faith in the face of even this orc.

"You are not lord, from… Oak Bow?" the orcish chieftain asked. He was cautious with the words, unfamiliar and incapable of properly speaking the elven tongue.

"I am not," the druid replied defiantly. "Lord Caradoc of Oakenbough remains safe."

A second orc moved up behind the speaker, this one an ancient specimen of his race, wearing blood red robes and carrying a spear of his own. Like the statue, this one had put out his eye; obviously a priest of their vulgar religion. For a moment the two spoke in their own language, before the chieftain turned back to his captive.

"You are slave," the chieftain explained. "You grow food."

Caradoc hesitated for a moment. Orcs, growing food?

"I will not," the druid finally countered, regaining his composure. The chieftain did not burst into a rage filled tantrum, as the druid would have expected.

"You help grow food, or you die," the chieftain explained calmly. "You bleed into ground."

"I would rather curse the crops you grow than show you how to farm," Caradoc retorted coldly. Once again the ancient priest said something to the chieftain. The chieftain nodded slowly.

"You crucify," the orc stated simply.


	3. Heavy is the Head

**II**

"Has the druid been placed?"

"He has," Ondrej replied, walking with Libor as the chieftain of the Bloody Fist tribe made his way through the streets of Bijelo Polje. Ondrej remained a step behind his liege as he strode rapidly through the half gated opening of the sturdy, rough hewn timber palisade that surrounded the home of the Bloody Fist orcs. "On the top terrace, as you ordered."

"Good," Libor said, stopping just inside the gates to appraise his Bloody Fist stronghold. Bijelo Polje was the largest city in the entire Khairathi Mountains, holding all thousand and more of his orc warriors, as well as the wives and children of the tribe. Outside of the palisade, just over a hundred slaves tended the rough terrace farms of the tribe, preparing to bring in their second harvest. Humans and half breeds dominated the exhausted, fearful laborers, but the occasional elf or dwarf stood out among the slaves. "See to it that the terraces are expanded," the chieftain decided, his stern amber eyes on the diminutive terrace farm. Atop the highest terrace, the captured elf, a druid of his people, had already been crucified, his blood dripping into the earth to bolster the coming year's harvest. "Next year's crops must be better suited to a city of this size."

"As you wish," Ondrej grumbled, remaining a respectful step behind the chieftain. Libor turned to his war chief.

"You do not approve of this?" he inquired simply. Ondrej, looking in barely concealed disdain at the terraces, returned his attention quickly to the faintly larger orc. For a long moment the two orcs locked stern gazes, until Ondrej finally dropped his eyes.

"I do not seek to challenge you," the war chief explained. "You have led the Bloody Fist to victory over the half breed and his Cruel Blades, and have forced the Cold Spear to join us. You are our chieftain."

"And yet you question my use of slaves to farm," Libor pressed.

"We are not farmers!" Ondrej blurted out. He did not mean to challenge the undisputed ruler of the Bloody Fist, but the simple thought of lowering himself to the level of a human ignited a hot core of anger within the war chief.

"You are correct," Libor said calmly, faintly surprising his subordinate. "We are not farmers."

"But… you turn us to that!" Ondrej countered in frustration, sweeping his hand to the rough terraces.

"We are not farmers," the chieftain stated again. "_They_ are farmers. They are slaves. They are spoils of war, just as wives, food, and metal are taken after our glorious victories. They are weak, cowardly subjects to the glory of the One Eye. They slave for us, so that we do not starve, and so that we can take tribes such as the Cold Spear into our own without so much as losing a single one of our warriors to a fellow orc. The One Eye himself deemed these farms necessary."

These… farms were supposed to be temporary!" Ondrej countered, his anger overcoming him as he turned away from the disgusting spectacle of the terraces. "Predrag's vision was of a harsh winter, not farms! Do you want us to become like the humans we so easily destroy? The One Eye will forsake us for this blasphemy!"

Libor's calm demeanor fled quickly as the chieftain's face darkened with rage. The larger orc's enormous hands tightened on the blackened haft of his spear until the knuckles turned white. Ondrej's hand dropped quickly to the heavy morning star on his belt as Libor's thick lips curled back in a snarl that prominently displayed his polished tusks.

"I want us to conquer humans," the chieftain growled, his low, heavy voice growing menacing as he leaned in on his war chief. "How will you lead troops that are starving, Ondrej? How can orcs fight if they lack the strength to lift their weapons?"

Ondrej said nothing, simply preparing to fight if it came to blows. Libor's rage was clearly etched on his features, a sure sign of imminent attack. And while Libor had done well to lead the Bloody Fist for his time as chief, Ondrej would not simply allow Libor to beat him, humiliating him in front of the entire camp. If called to it, Ondrej would defend his beliefs. Orcs were not meant to be farmers. Around the pair, orcs stopped in their chores and travels, watching as the two most powerful members of the Bloody Fist threatened to begin a fight that could change the leadership of the tribe.

The tense standoff ended suddenly, however, as Libor turned angrily and stormed back into the camp, leaving Ondrej breathless and anxious but no less certain of his convictions.

* * *

><p>To the orcs of the Khairathi Mountains, Bijelo Polje was a grand fortification. Dominating a handful of low ridges overlooking the winding River Ondava, Bijelo Polje's ten foot tall wooden palisade ringed a mismatched collection of hide tents and wood and earth lodges set along dirt streets hard packed with the dry weather of late summer. The narrow avenues of Bijelo Polje led unerringly to the one great, permanent structure of the encampment; the temple of Gruumsh, the One Eye, that dominated the highest ridge inside the palisade. The timber and granite structure dwarfed the homes and feast halls of the Bloody Fist, taking its rightful place as the center of a tribe devoted to fulfilling the vision given by the great orcish god to the first chieftains of the tribes. Orcs were destined to rule the other races; they proved it every day with their courage, their strength, and their fury.<p>

In the past, the sight of Bijelo Polje had been enough to make Libor feel proud of his people and what they had accomplished. Now, though, it only served to further inflame the chieftain. Although he had never seen Trzebin, hobgoblin arms merchants had come to Bijelo Polje. They had always shown their quiet disapproval of the primitive conditions of his camp. Others seethed at the irreverent attitude of the foreigners, but Libor could see further. If orcs were the greatest of the races in the Realm, why were hobgoblins not impressed? What little Libor had heard of mighty Trzebin were of walls made of stone that towered over the flimsy log palisade of Bijelo Polje. Inside those monstrous walls, thousands of hobgoblins practiced for war, forged the exceptional weapons that they used or sold to the orcs, and worshipped in grand cathedrals that put his Temple to the One Eye to shame. Gruumsh should be worshipped in the basalt cathedrals of Trzebin, not the weak Hextor that hobgoblins revered. Hextor took in the bastards of every race; Gruumsh remained pure and true to his people.

So why did they not prosper?

Libor's tribe, at the very least, prospered. The last winter had indeed been harsh; if not for the use of slave farmers the previous season, the Bloody fist, like almost every other tribe of orcs in the Khairathi Mountains, would have faced starvation in the spring and early summer. Heavy spring rains had done little to bring food to the orcs until summer. Indeed, the summer's crops, while a far cry from supporting the entire tribe, had convinced Libor that using slaves longer than a mere season or two would bring undreamed of prosperity to his tribe. Less raiding meant more organizing, and more organizing meant greater ability to wage war on his neighbors. It was the refusal of Ondrej and others like him, true orcs and great warriors but blinded by simple tradition, that frustrated the chieftain and doomed his recent gains.

Libor stopped in front of his tent, the grandest of all structures save the temple of the One Eye that stood on the ridge directly above. As chieftain, it was Libor's right to the highest point in the camp, but he had quickly deferred to the patron god of the orcs to bring favor to his tribe and to show the proper respect to the god that had gifted him with strength and fury. His tent, made of hide stretched over sturdy timber poles and dyed a garish red, was adorned with trophies of war by its open flap, from polished elven skulls to the antler racks of the largest elk and deer that hid in the many valleys and glens of the Khairathi. Other proud decorations, painted in white and black along the blood colored surface of the tent, depicted mighty clashes, most recently with Oleksandr and the Cruel Blades but also of his ascent to power, the many hunts he had led, and wars and raids that had brought glory to the Bloody Fist. Libor's home stood out among the more subdued tents of the orcs around him, clearly denoting his position as leader of the Bloody Fist.

Libor considered the huge tent before him for a long moment, growing faintly unhappy with the structure, before ducking through the flap.

Inside, the light of the sun only entered through two vent holes in the roof and the wide flaps that marked three doors around the tent. Furs and hides, personal trophies or tribute from his orcs, were piled along the perimeter of the tent, while a cooking fire still smoldered in the center. A crude log floor had been placed over a full third of the earthen ground to keep the chieftain and his wives, as well as his personal treasures of gold, cloth and food, dry during heavy rains. Brass lanterns, captured in raids on Tourant villages and settlements, lit the interior of the tent with a clean light, illuminating the female straightening the sleeping furs along the wooden floorboards. As he entered, the female looked up, a faintly surprised expression coming to her wide face and dark eyes.

"Husband, I did not expect you back so soon," the young female said, quickly returning to her work.

"Stop," Libor ordered sternly. The female, Neza, turned quickly back to the chieftain, her eyes lowering as she expected some form of punishment. Shorter and smaller than the chieftain, Neza nonetheless made a desirable mate. Her hips were wide, perfect for child bearing, and her arms and legs, while not overly muscled, showed a strength that would breed true. She wore her hair, long and black but not overly coarse, in braids that framed her face well, and her tusks, though prominent, did not overtake her face. Properly submissive, Neza would be loyal to her husband despite the fact that her father Jure, once chieftain of the Cold Spear tribe, now wasted away in squalor on the lowest ridges of Bijelo Polje, where the filth of the rest of the camp was carried with every rainfall.

"Hu… husband?" Neza inquired timidly. Libor found himself staring blankly at his young wife, and shook the musings from his head.

"I do not require you at this time," Libor said, his stern tone remaining but no true emotion behind his words. "See to your other chores."

"As you wish, husband," Neza said quietly. Quickly the female ducked out of the opposite side of the tent, leaving the chieftain alone with all of his worldly possessions. To almost any other orc, the contents of his tent showed a glorious and lavish lifestyle.

To Libor, they showed him his standing beneath the hobgoblins of Trzebin, or even the humans of Tourant.

* * *

><p>"Do not play with him! Kill him!"<p>

The human, lucky if he had seen thirteen summers, raced in terror from one side of the crude wooden pen to the other, blubbering in his native Tourant and screaming as he ran. He had been given a crude dagger forged from copper that had been captured in raids, but the pathetic human seemed to have forgotten his weapon as he rushed up against the sapling bars of the pen, continuing his cowardly and futile search for an escape. Behind him, a young orcish boy, no older than the human he chased, thrust forward with his spear once again.

"This is pathetic," Vladan stated, leaning against the pen as he watched the sniveling human duck and flee to the opposite side of the cell. "Jiri will never learn how to fight against this… thing."

"He is still a full winter away from his year of Trial," Raduz countered, turning back to the younger warrior. "Better to spend time learning this now, while he still has time to play."

"Hardly any glory in this," Vladan commented, gesturing to the human running with tears streaming down his face. Once again Jiri charged after his foe, failing again to catch him as he continued to elude the spear wielding warrior. "Come now, boy!" Vladan commented. "It will be dark soon!"

"He will not fight me!" Jiri shouted furiously, stopping in the center of the pen. His broad chest heaved with exertion, and sweat matted his long, jet black hair to his powerful jaw and broad, sloping forehead. "This is cowardice!"

"This is a human!" Raduz countered sternly. On the far side of the pen, the boy had dropped to his knees, panting for breath and rambling in his own language, likely begging for mercy. Anger showing through clearly on his heavily scarred face, Raduz took up his finely wrought spear and started to the gate of the pen. Although the trainer's powerful arms and chest still bulged through the rough leather tunic he wore, Raduz was forced to use his fine weapon as a crutch to support his shattered left leg. "What are you expecting?"

"Perhaps you could command him to die," Vladan offered jokingly from outside the pen.

"Be quiet!" Raduz snapped to the younger, able bodied warrior.

"He is not worth my effort!" Jiri decided angrily. "I will not fight this… vermin!"

Raduz was crippled, but he was not helpless. In a single lightning motion he drew his arm back and backhanded the young orc, spinning him and staggering him to the ground.

"You must learn to fight him, just as you would learn to fight an orc," Raduz ordered, his voice stern and bordering on menacing. "Orcs fight with strength and fury, but humans will only occasionally stand their ground. You must corner them or chase them down, or they will run and hide."

Jiri glared up at the older warrior, rage coming to his face. The boy opened his mouth to retort, but once again Raduz backhanded the younger orc.

"You do not give orders here, boy," the trainer warned him. "Finish your task. Kill that pathetic, sniveling creature, and show me you are better than a human."

Jiri bristled in rage at the insult, once again taking up his spear and bellowing as he raced in on the human. The boy leapt to his feet and fled once more, keeping a step ahead of the enraged young orc screaming in bloodlust.

"Anticipate his moves!" Raduz instructed, shaking his head in frustration as he watched the two combatants. "Turn with him! Force him into a corner or cut him off!"

Jiri snarled in frustration at his mentor's advice, but as the human turned the younger orc finally began to read the movements. The boy tried to get past him, but Jiri forced him back along the side of the pen, quickly running him into the corner. The human tried to turn quickly and twist out of the way of the orc, but Jiri slammed home with his spear, ramming the boy into the corner as his weapon sank into the flesh beneath the human's ribs.

"No!" Raduz shouted in anger. "No, no, no!"

"He is mine!" Jiri countered, turning in surprise on his mentor.

"He caught the thing, Raduz," Vladan pointed out.

"You stay out of this!" Raduz snapped, whirling furiously on the younger warrior. Vladan took a step back from the enraged trainer, putting his hands up in a gesture of peace. Raduz turned back to his young charge, hobbling into the pen once more with furious energy. "Your thrust was too low!" he pointed out angrily. "He is still alive!"

"He will bleed out," Jiri countered smugly. This time Raduz did not slap the boy, but instead punched him with enough force to topple the younger orc. As Jiri stumbled unsteadily to his feet, Raduz swept the youngster's legs out from under him, pinning him to the ground with the tip of his spear before he could try again to stand.

"Once I made a similar mistake," Raduz stated coldly as the boy regained coherence. "I had already felled two ogres, and as the third charged me I thrust my spear. The ogre indeed bled out, but not before his club smashed my knee and my shin to powder. Is that what you want, boy? Do you wish to be _bogalj_, like me? Never again able to fight?"

"No," Jiri said quietly. Raduz removed his spear from the boy's chest.

"Now do it properly," he growled. Chastened, Jiri climbed slowly to his feet, returning to the sobbing human and pulling his spear free. His next strike was better aimed, and his spear impaled the human to the ground through his vitals.

"That is a killing blow," Raduz observed. "Trust your strength and your aim to guide your weapon between the ribs, to find his heart. Never leave your foe alive, for it will be the death of you." Raduz paused for a moment before nodding to his shattered leg. "Your death, or worse."

"I understand," Jiri said. Raduz nodded.

"Now go," the trainer said. "See the crones. Soon enough you won't have to see them any more."

"Thank you, Raduz," Jiri said. Quickly he yanked his spear free and, with the tip still bloody, rushed out of the pen and into Bijelo Polje. With the boy gone, Raduz finally looked to Vladan.

"If you are not going to be of help to me, I will not have you distract my charges," the _bogalj_ snarled, leveling his spear at the younger warrior. Vladan's face darkened with anger. "It is my honor to make these boys into true orcs."

"Honor," Vladan sneered. He spat on the ground in front of the crippled orc. "You're _bogalj_. There is no more honor for you. You couldn't even find yourself a true orc's death, and now you think you can make others into true orcs?"

"I can still deliver a true orc's death to you, Vladan," Raduz warned, hobbling forward a step with his spear raised. Vladan drew his axe quickly from his belt, but his anger disappeared as he looked past the _bogalj_.

"Do not dismiss what one who has seen many battles can teach, boy," a new voice stated. Raduz did not even have to look over his shoulder to know the newcomer's identity. "Perhaps you would do well to listen, Vladan."

"As you wish, chieftain," Vladan said, lowering his axe. Libor stepped past the _bogalj_.

"There is something else you must attend to, I am certain," Libor prompted, his stern gaze locked squarely on Vladan.

"Of course," Vladan agreed. Quickly the younger warrior turned and hurried off, leaving the _bogalj_ alone with his chieftain. Finally, Libor turned back to the crippled warrior.

"I may not be able to march to battle, but I can still deal with a whelp like that," Raduz said. Libor nodded.

"And it would cost me a good warrior," the chieftain explained. "Young and headstrong, but a good warrior."

"Of course," Raduz said. Libor looked down at the _bogalj's_ leg for a moment before continuing.

"Jiri has done well?" he inquired simply.

"He grows more skillful each day," Raduz said. "Though he feels that humans are beneath him."

"They are," Libor agreed.

"That is true, but he must fight them," Raduz said. "Not every battle will come against orcs."

"I know," Libor said. "That is why I have given him to you. The time will come when I can no longer lead. I want him to be ready to challenge when that time comes."

"I will teach him all that I know," Raduz promised. Libor nodded faintly. "He shows promise, and your strength bred true in him."

"That is good," Libor said. The two walked for a moment in silence, Libor slowing considerably to match Raduz's embarrassingly slow gait. Finally, Libor glanced again to the _bogalj's_ shattered leg.

"I apologize," Raduz said.

"It pains you?" Libor inquired.

"Yes," Raduz answered. "The changing weather brings new aches."

"I am sorry," Libor said. Raduz chuckled faintly, a note of frustration coming through in his voice.

"_Bogalj_ are too used to such pity," he said. "Once the winter is gone, I think I shall find my way east. It may take me some time, but I think I can find the right Tourant to give me the good death. I will take many with me, that much I know."

"Yes, of course," Libor said. Raduz stopped and looked to his chieftain.

"Is this not acceptable?" the _bogalj_ inquired. "I am crippled, but I can still fight one last time."

"I… wished you to teach Bela the spear, once Jiri moves on to his Trial," Libor explained. "You are a good warrior, Raduz. I have fought many times with you, and have always been impressed."

"I am no longer a warrior," Raduz countered sadly. "I wish to die properly."

"Bela will need a strong teacher when the time comes," Libor pressed. "Few are better with the spear than you, Raduz. And come the spring, most warriors…"

"I am aware of what they will be doing," Raduz said as Libor trailed off. A note of bitterness crept into his voice. "I have asked the One Eye many times why he did not allow me to die or win cleanly, but in the end he has not answered me. I will not live in filth at the bottom of the ridges until I die of festering sores. Were both my legs shattered, I would still find a way to die like a true orc."

"You will not be cast to the bottom, Raduz," Libor said. The _bogalj_ looked quizzically to his leader. "You are a mentor now. You teach the young ones to fight, as you do Jiri and his cohorts. And you will take your place by my side, for you will also defend Bijelo Polje when the warriors are raiding."

"I… do not understand," Raduz said. "I am _bogalj_."

"I will not waste your skill on a handful of unscarred villagers!" Libor snapped, his patience breaking as he grabbed Raduz by the shoulders. "You will teach my orcs to fight!"

Raduz nodded blankly, too astonished by the chieftain's bizarre behavior to do anything more. Libor glared into the crippled orc's eyes for a moment, until he finally cast Raduz aside roughly. The _bogalj_ fell to the ground, but before he could even try to stand again Libor had stormed off into Bijelo Polje.

* * *

><p>"Warriors approach! Another war party returns!"<p>

"That is Miran's war party," Zdeno observed, watching as a band of orcs made their way into the gates of Bijelo Polje. "They've come back from Tourant, judging by their spoils."

"They have done well," Ondrej noted, looking past the raiders to their small train of slaves and baggage. Just over a dozen humans, likely one for each orc, stumbled into the orcish camp under the burden of looted copper, brass, silver, and food, already beaten and broken by their captors. The war chief of the Bloody Fist looked to the hulking warrior standing with him as he continued. "I see Miran himself has made it back."

"It is unfortunate that the One Eye never answers that particular prayer of mine," Zdeno grumbled, leaning on his monstrous axe as the band approached. Already dozens of orcs, fellow warriors as well as females and young related to the raiders, hurried from their homes to meet the returning heroes. Miran, the Single Tusk, led the small column, a broad grin punctuated by the loss of one of his protruding lower canines stretched across his wide, flat face. Traces of blood still clotted his long, unkempt hair, staining the deep brown tones with streaks of rust.

"You take it too hard," Ondrej said with a smile, turning to the larger orc. "The One Eye favored Miran this year, but he favored you the year before."

Zdeno spat on the ground before him, showing his displeasure, but he could say nothing in reply. Each year Miran and Zdeno traded insults and challenges over who would bring more glory to the tribe. Miran's final raid of the year had brought back more slaves, more wealth, and more food than Zdeno's minor victories in the Uskub Valley to the west, where mixed bands of orcs, humans, and their frail offspring lived in small villages.

"He was lucky," Zdeno muttered finally. Ondrej smiled at the remark; Miran had given the same dubious praise to Zdeno the previous year.

"We have returned, Ondrej!" Miran declared triumphantly, pushing past his wives and striding up to the war chief. "With food for the winter and metal for battle!"

"Well done, Miran!" Ondrej exclaimed, embracing the returned warrior. "Gruumsh has smiled on you this summer!"

"Indeed," Miran agreed, turning a smug smile on Zdeno. "Much more for me than for certain other war parties, that is certain."

"I did not slaughter weaklings," Zdeno grumbled. Miran nodded sagaciously.

"Of course," the victorious raider agreed. "The bastard half breeds of the Uskub Valley, so powerful that they did not even organize into full war parties, were indeed dangerous foes!"

"More dangerous than full blooded humans," Zdeno countered, trying to regain some vestige of pride from the lost challenge. Ondrej laughed at the exchange.

"More glorious battles await next summer," the war chief noted, soothing Zdeno's wounded pride. "Wait until we fight Oleksandr again in the spring!"

"To the half breed's death!" one of Miran's berserkers shouted. The chorus was taken up by the surrounding orcs.

"To the half breed's death," Zdeno relented. Miran nodded, his smile returning.

"So, what of our slaves?" the raid leader inquired, gesturing back to the exhausted humans held at spear point by the gates of the camp. "I know we need more bodies to string up along our northern borders. Even in Tourant the Flayed Skull's actions reached us. We are ready to take them there, and to fight Kazatimiru if he shows his unscarred face!"

A round of cheers broke out from Miran's raiders, but the mere mention of slaves darkened Ondrej's mood faintly.

"They are to be brought to the farms," the war chief stated quietly. Miran's excitement at the prospect of one last battle faded instantly with the mention of the farms.

"But… we were to be rid of… that," the raider said, gesturing to the farms with his spear. Ondrej shook his head.

"Libor has decided to use the farms for another year," the war chief explained. Miran's surprise turned quickly to indignance.

"We were to be done with that," the raider reiterated. Zdeno shrugged.

"They bring us food," the larger orc said. "I see no problem."

"They are an embarrassment!" Miran countered. "The other tribes see us and laugh! We keep pets!"

"Pets that bring us food," Zdeno argued. Miran turned to his rival angrily.

"We need no one to bring us food!" the raider exclaimed furiously. "One harsh winter, and even then we could have done without this foolishness! We have taken food, slaves, and metals from the humans and from the other tribes all summer! Destroy those abominations before the Flayed Skull, and every other tribe, thinks us cowards and weaklings!"

"Let them think what they will," Zdeno decided. "I am well fed. I will keep my pets."

"You would probably take one of those pathetic, mewling human females over your own wives!" Miran spat, growing openly mocking. "Are you even enough of an orc to handle a real mate?"

"Careful, Miran," Ondrej said, surprised at the sudden rancor between the two orcs. A chorus of laughter rose from the crowd gathering around them, eager to see the culmination of three years of rivalry between the Single Tusk and Zdeno. Spurred on by his comrades, Miran ignored the war chief's warning.

"Come now, Zdeno," he stated, growing more derisive and cruel. "Are you _bogalj_, and just have not told anyone? Do your wives look to other tents for satisfaction while you create bastards with the frail human females?"

Zdeno's answer came in a vicious punch that caught the gloating Miran off guard. The smaller orc was launched backward with a sickening crack of his nose breaking, tumbling to the ground in front of his astonished war party. For a long moment the stunned orc remained on the ground, staring up in shock as Zdeno took a single step forward.

"Your wives seem to prefer my broad axe to your tiny spear," Zdeno snarled, hefting his monstrous weapon. "Ask them how many of their children bear my blood."

"I'll gut you where you stand!" Miran exclaimed, jumping back to his feet and raising his spear. Zdeno pulled back his axe as his foe lowered his weapon for a charge.

"Enough!" Ondrej shouted, stepping in with his morning star and shield at the ready. Miran skidded to a stop after only one step.

"I want right of combat!" the single tusked orc demanded.

"There will be no rights of combat today!" Ondrej declared, turning on Zdeno. The larger orc had taken a step forward, but stopped as Ondrej's cold glare froze him. "We feast tonight on the spoils of war, not on each other!"

"This is not the way, Ondrej!" Miran barked. "By right I will have my combat!"

"The only thing you will have today is your death," Ondrej snarled, pushing the raider back with his shield. "You have done well, returning from Tourant with your spoils, and you have won your challenge over Zdeno. Take your victory and walk away!"

Miran bared his teeth at the war chief, but finally turned and stormed back through his fellow raiders. Ondrej turned to Zdeno next. The hulking orc was unreadable, his axe still held in his hands but finally lowered from his defensive position.

"Go back to your wives, Zdeno," the war chief ordered.

"You know this is not the way," Zdeno said quietly.

"We will most likely face the half breed again in the spring," Ondrej stated simply. "I cannot lose you or the Single Tusk before then."

"He will not be denied forever," Zdeno pointed out. The hulking orc shouldered his axe and started back into Bijelo Polje. "Neither will I."


	4. Bijelo Polje

**III**

"Once, in times long past, the orcs followed the leadership of He Who Never Sleeps, Gruumsh, in glorious battle throughout the mountains and into the forests where elves and humans live."

The story was one of the oldest tales of the orcs, of a long ago time when battle raged endlessly across the realm and the orcs were a truly feared and glorious people. By now, Jiri had practically memorized the story, but his brothers and sisters had yet to hear and understand the tales of the One Eye and its importance to the unity and purity of the orcish race.

Jitka, the crone, once again told the story, bundled in rough cloth and fur robes despite the warmth of the early autumn day. She sat in the center of almost a dozen young orcs, ranging in age from Jiri's dozen years to the youngest, who had seen no more than six or seven summers. It was the job of the crones to teach the children the history and traditions of the proud orcs; few men would ever see themselves grow old and withered as Jitka or the other women of the tribes did. Jiri himself had no intentions of ever growing as old as Jitka. He would enter the great feast halls of the One Eye as a strong, able bodied orc, not some withered crone or crippled _bogalj_.

"He Who Never Sleeps was a powerful and tireless warrior," Jitka explained, her raspy voice snapping Jiri back to the present. The crone's amber eyes, clouding over with milky white cataracts, nonetheless swept out over each student in turn to ensure they listened to her words. "He fought for days on end, his fury carrying him to greater heights of war and glory, until he had united all orcs under his banner and had raided far beyond the mountains, even beyond the great seas to vast deserts and frozen wastes. All of the lands of humans and elves, dwarves and goblins, feared the sight of the great orc, the fiercest berserker who ever lived!"

The crone paused for dramatic effect, glancing across the assembled youngsters.

"But even the greatest warriors can be taken," Jitka continued, her voice growing faintly low. "For in a great forest where He Who Never Sleeps roamed, he hunted a great hart, a deer with fur of whitest snow and horns of purest ivory. He Who Never Sleeps hunted the hart for days, weeks, even a month, following its tracks through great stands of oak and pine, across glistening rivers, closing inevitably behind the elusive beast. And though the hart was the greatest prize, one no hunter had ever brought down, the great orc's tireless chase brought him to the great creature, sipping from water in a tiny brook. The hart rushed away, but He Who Never Sleeps cast his javelins, striking the beast in its hind leg. The great orcish chieftain rushed forward, raising his spear to finish the beast, but as he reached it, he found in its place an elven girl!"

"And he killed her?" one of the youngest orcs, no older than eight, asked.

"No," Jitka replied, a faint smile coming to her ancient face. Her tusks, worn down to little more than stubs, barely showed above her lips. "The elven girl offered He Who Never Sleeps a prize greater than her own life, greater even than the ivory and hide of the hart that she had been."

"But… what could be greater than killing an elf?" another of the young ones inquired. Jitka's smile widened faintly. "What could the One Eye want?"

"Do you not understand?" the crone inquired. "I have not named him as the One Eye yet. For at one time, long ago, He Who Never Sleeps had two eyes, and he did not hate elves above all others. And when the girl offered him a gift of strength, He Who Never Sleeps did listen, for he did not know the treachery of their kind."

"What was it?" the youngest orc asked, wide eyed.

"She said that she could make him even stronger," Jitka answered. "She said she could brew a potion that would make He Who Never Sleeps stronger than the giants, and his skin would become tough as stone. But for such a potion, she would need something from the great warrior. She would need his left eye, for in it she would see that which would make the great warrior stronger and be able to brew the potion from these ingredients. Knowing the value of strength, He Who Never Sleeps drew his dagger and plucked his left eye from his skull, offering it to the elf in exchange for the potion. The girl told him to return in exactly one month's time to the exact spot where he had defeated her, and she would give him the potion that would make him the greatest warrior to ever walk the land. And after one month, the great warrior returned to the glen, ready to receive his boon for leaving the elven girl alive. Do you know what he found?"

Jitka glanced from one orc to the next, but the young sat rapt with attention, barely breathing.

"Nothing," the crone continued. "The elf did not return. There was no potion to make He Who Never Sleeps stronger. All he had gained from his mercy was the loss of his left eye. He Who Never Sleeps raged for days, tearing the great forest asunder in his search for the girl, but the elf had disappeared. He Who Never Sleeps was forced to return to his tribe with only one eye, and from that day he was known as One Eye Who Never Sleeps."

"He never found the elf?" one of the young orcs asked.

"No," Jitka answered. "But in the loss of his eye, He Who Never Sleeps gained much wisdom. He learned that mercy is a tool of deception. That one should never let an enemy escape, that one who begs for her life is not worth the effort of mercy. Those who beg for mercy are devious and evil, and must be destroyed even more than an honorable enemy that is prepared to die. The One Eye also learned that the elves, the hated forest dwelling creatures, are fey that hold nothing but malice and evil tricks for their natural superiors. Their Earth Mother is a malevolent being that plots our demise, and we must be wary of their transgressions. And finally, do not place your trust in the 'secrets' of arcane magic. Trust in your own strength, your own fury, and your own endurance. The One Eye will not look favorably upon one who trusts such underhanded tricks as a mage or druid offers. If your own strength does not suffice, grow stronger through your trials, your ordeals, and your victories against the lesser races. Magic will profit you nothing."

Jiri had heard the story many times before, but finally he had a new question about the ancient story.

"Crone?" the young orc asked, moving forward slightly. Jitka turned to him. "Whatever happened to the elf girl?"

"Well," Jitka began, smiling faintly, "perhaps one day you will find her. If you do, do not fall for her tricks. Slay her and return He Who Never Sleeps' eye to him. Do that, and you will have earned glory that orcs can only dream of."

* * *

><p>One year ago, she had been the daughter of a powerful chieftain, given to one of the great young warriors of a tribe on the verge of glory and honor.<p>

So much had changed in a year.

It was not often that Neza truly had a chance to look back upon the twisted path her life had taken since the previous summer. Her tribe, the Cold Spear, had suffered immensely over the past year before its ultimate dissolution only a few months before. Losses in battle and starvation had destroyed her tribe and killed her betrothed, but her tribe's misfortune had been a blessing of sorts to her. At only sixteen, just barely of age for marriage, Neza was now the wife of arguably the most powerful orc in all of the Khairathi Mountains, the greatest glory a female could obtain. Her father wallowed in misery at the bottom of Bijelo Polje, branded a coward and a weakling for surrendering his tribe, but Neza's marriage to Libor Bloody Fist was a backhanded compliment to the potential the chieftain had seen in Jure Cold Spear's bloodline.

"Do not do it that way," another female said, her voice stern and disapproving. "Libor does not like the blankets folded in such a manner."

"No one has shown me how he does like it," Neza countered, turning back to the other orc sharing Libor's tent with her. Kaja, twice Neza's age and the mother of Libor's four sons and two daughters, turned her almond eyes to the new wife.

"A wife should be attentive to what her husband desires," Kaja stated. Behind her, Eliska and Jarek, the youngest of Libor's children, played idly on the ground as their mother turned away from them. "No one should have to show a wife what her husband desires. That is for you to figure out. I was not told what Libor liked when I became his wife, nor should I have to tell you."

"Libor has expressed no dislike of the way in which I prepare his bed," Neza countered, unsure of how to approach the older wife. By rights, Kaja held more prestige of the two of them, as she had given Libor children, but the older wife had shown the new arrival nothing but disdain since Neza had come into the tent.

"Then you do not pay attention to your husband's needs," Kaja retorted. "You are fortunate that I am here to make up for your mistakes."

"I know you do not like me," Neza said, forgetting her chores and turning to the older wife. "You have made that plain since the day Libor took me. I do not know why Libor took no other wives during that time, but now he has. And we must live together, or face our husband's wrath together."

Kaja glared at her for a long moment, rage beginning to twist her face. For an instant Neza thought the older female would physically attack her, tensing for the coming assault.

"Libor never wanted you," Kaja finally growled out through clenched teeth. "Libor does not desire you. You are here only because others thought that the chieftain should marry again, and convinced him that a pathetic, mewling child from a failed tribe would make an acceptable wife. I am Libor's wife, child. He desires me, and me alone."

"Then why does Libor ask me to come to his bed so often?" Neza inquired, unable to resist the insult. Kaja's stood frozen by the counter, her face contorted by stunned outrage.

"You ungrateful little child!" she exclaimed, finally finding her voice.

"I will not take your insults any more, crone," Neza declared. "For three months I have allowed you to torture me. No more!"

Kaja took a furious step toward the younger wife, but the rustle of the tent flap stopped her before she could reach Neza.

"I hope I find my wives and children well," Libor said evenly, stepping into the dim interior from the bright afternoon outside. The chieftain looked from one to the other, his eyes stern.

"Husband!" Kaja said, turning and warmly embracing her husband. "Yes, your son and daughter play well, and I was teaching this one how you like your blankets arranged."

"That is good," Libor said, barely returning Kaja's show of affection. "Where is Jiri, and where are the others?"

"They are still with the crones," Kaja answered quickly, before Neza could answer herself. "This one was slow taking them to Jitka, so they remain with her."

"This one," Libor repeated, looking to Neza. Neza dropped her eyes slightly, properly submissive to her husband.

"Borivoj was not feeling well," she explained quietly. "I thought it would be best to delay a short time, for his sake."

"Borivoj," Libor repeated. The faintest hint of frustration came across the chieftain's face with the mention of his third son, no doubt due to the boy's weaker frame compared to his older brothers. "We must not baby him, Neza. He must grow stronger."

"Yes, husband," Neza agreed with a faint nod. From her position against Libor's chest, Kaja shot a smug smile at her, satisfied with the younger wife's apparent failing.

"I will cook your favorite stew tonight, husband," Kaja said, putting herself between Libor and Neza as she continued. "I have already begun preparing it, and I have found the roots that you like so much in your stew."

"Good work, Kaja," Libor said, smiling at his first wife. "Prepare Neza as well for tonight. I will have her."

"Neza?" Kaja repeated, her bright demeanor going notably false.

"That is what I said, Kaja," Libor confirmed. "Make sure my sons are well fed, especially Borivoj."

"Of… of course, husband," Kaja said, fighting to keep her frustration out of her voice. If Libor noticed her emotions, he refused to acknowledge them.

"Then continue," the chieftain stated, lifting the tent flap and starting back out into Bijelo Polje. As he disappeared, Kaja's façade melted away into seething anger.

"It seems our husband prefers me again," Neza stated simply. Kaja bared her tusks as she growled in fury, but turned and stormed out of the tent without another word.

* * *

><p>The years had once been kind to him. Not so much any more.<p>

Stribog groaned as he retrieved another branch from the pile left for him by the females, wincing from the aches of his old wounds. Grumbling under his breath, the badly scarred _bogalj_ made his way back into the largest forge of Bijelo Polje, a crude, dome shaped kiln where he melted down captured bronze and copper to make the metal tips of javelins and the occasional arrow. Over four years, the crippled orc had learned much more than he had ever desired to know about judging the form of javelin hafts, or of pouring melted bronze into the rough molds to create the weapons the orcs needed. Stribog spent a moment judging the branch in his hand before opening the kiln door and tossing it into the fire, displeased at an almost imperceptible warp in the wood.

"Maybe next spring," the _bogalj_ muttered to himself, taking a moment to absorb the heat of the furnace. Perhaps the autumn days were getting colder, or perhaps it just seemed that way. Shaking his head, Stribog shut the furnace again, unhappy with the dying heat of the coals. Such low heat would never melt the bronze candelabra sitting in the crude vat suspended over the embers.

"Maybe next spring?" a voice asked behind him. Stribog turned quickly, but winced as his old injuries made his sudden movement painful. "Forgive me, Stribog," Libor said quietly. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Perhaps my ears are beginning to fail, as well," the _bogalj_ said, shaking his head as he walked past the chieftain to the pile of branches. "I used to have a better sense of the land around me."

"You were a great warrior," Libor said. "I feared the day when I would have had to face you for control of the tribe."

"It seems you have no reason to fear any more, Libor," Stribog pointed out. "You should thank Bozidar when it is your turn to see the One Eye."

"It is a battle still talked of throughout the mountains," Libor stated. "You gained much glory that day."

"Much glory, and wounds that will never heal," Stribog added. The orc's lungs could no longer hold the air to carry him through battle, nor would his arms or legs ever be strong enough to withstand the rigors of combat. Several of Stribog's teeth had also been knocked out, including his left tusk and three of his front teeth, completing a gruesome scar that took up most of the left side of his face. "But enough of that," the _bogalj_ decided. "What is it you wish of me, Libor?"

Libor said nothing, but held his massive, wide bladed spear out. Stribog looked to the chieftain for a long moment before hesitantly taking the weapon in his hands.

"An excellent weapon," the _bogalj_ observed, feeling the fine balance in the haft and observing the blackened, polished look of the steel. Libor's spear had likely been blessed as well; Predrag had been known to consecrate the weapons of the Bloody Fist's most powerful warriors, making them even stronger and sharper than their mundane counterparts. Stribog looked back to the chieftain, but Libor said nothing. "Is something wrong?" the smith asked, growing confused.

"It is a hobgoblin weapon," Libor replied, as if in explanation. Stribog looked over the fine weapon.

"It… is," he confirmed.

"Could you make one like it?" Libor asked simply. Stribog simply stared at the chieftain for a moment, too stunned to say anything.

"I… don't know," the _bogalj_ answered. "I…. I have never tried something like this. I have never even worked with steel. I simply make arrowheads and javelin tips from melted bronze."

"I want you to try," Libor said. "You are too weak to find a last battle, but if you can make spears and other weapons like this, you will earn a new glory in the tribe."

"I… am _bogalj_," Stribog pointed out, astonished by the statement. "I can no longer gain glory. I live-"

"I know where you live!" Libor snapped, snatching his spear back angrily from the cripple. "And I do not care! You are the best weapon smith we have, and I want a weapon made by orcish hands!"

"Libor, have you gone mad?" Stribog exclaimed, finally finding his voice and temper. "We are orcs! We do not make weapons, we take weapons! Would you deny me a chance to find a good death if the enemy approaches so I can sit in this kiln and make spears? Would you reduce me to a hobgoblin, or worse still, a human?"

"I want an orcish weapon," Libor repeated, his voice dropping to a menacing snarl. "I will no longer send our rightful plunder to flat headed merchants from Trzebin or any other city. They mock us and feed on our strength!"

"They are without honor or glory," Stribog countered, "and I consider this conversation an insult. If Oleksandr or Kazatimiru ever venture close to our lands again, I will not be denied my good death! I will not enter the One Eye's feast halls like this!" the _bogalj_ declared vehemently, gesturing to his broken body. "Battle will make me whole again!"

"You are a fool!" Libor spat.

"And you are a blasphemer!" Stribog retorted. "Tell me, chieftain, if you were in my place, would you give up your chance at your last glory to make weapons like some flat head or smooth skinned human?"

"The One Eye would make you whole again for your service to his people," Libor snarled.

"Would he?" Stribog asked. "Would you be willing to say those same words to Predrag?"

Libor paused for a long moment.

"He would agree with me," the chieftain finally decided. Stribog snorted out a derisive chuckle.

"I will take my chances with Oleksandr, when he comes in the spring," Stribog said. "I will not stand before the One Eye as a _bogalj_."

Libor's face darkened with rage, but the chieftain said nothing more as he turned sharply on his heel.

"Libor," Stribog called out. The chieftain stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "You have been a good chieftain. Do not let these blasphemous ideas lead to your downfall, for if you continue, it is only a matter of time."

"We shall see," Libor growled, stalking off into the camp.

* * *

><p>Like almost every other road that led up the ridges, the road away from Stribog's makeshift forge led to the temple of the One Eye.<p>

It was here that Libor retreated when he needed the guidance of the One Eye. The orcish chieftain stood in the doorway, staring up at the impressive statue of his god, One Eye Who Never Sleeps. In the dim, reddish glow of the braziers that surrounded it, the effigy's single ruby eye glittered as it seemed to look down on the chieftain, judging him as he stepped onto the black flagstones of the temple. Slowly Libor made his way to the statue, stopping in front of it and kneeling down in front of it. Carefully placing his spear on the floor in front of him, the chieftain kissed the flagstones in front of him before lifting his eyes to face the icon.

"Grant me your strength and your vision," Libor prayed quietly. "Fill me with the rage to face my enemies and the strength to emerge victorious. Guide my spear, that my strikes spill the lifeblood of my foes."

His brief prayer completed, the chieftain stood and turned away from the statue, his amber eyes searching the dark interior of the temple for signs of other orcs. After a moment, a shadow moved out of one of the small alcoves.

"My chieftain returns once more to pray?" the ancient orc asked, moving into the angry glow of the braziers. Wrapped in blood red robes, the old priest leaned on an ornate spear as a cane of sorts, his wild white hair thinning to wisps over his heavily wrinkled and badly scarred face.

"I am troubled, Predrag," Libor said as the wizened, one eyed priest moved to the warmth of one of the braziers. Predrag nodded, his good right eye following the chieftain as he rested his spear in the crook of his shoulder.

"This much I can see," the priest stated, a faint smile coming to his thin lips. "We have been victorious this summer. You defeated the half breed and gained the allegiance of the entire Cold Spear tribe. Of all the raids conducted by all the tribes this summer, we have brought back more food, more metal, and more slaves than any other tribe."

"Are we dying?" Libor asked bluntly, locking gazes with the ancient priest.

"We are all dying," Predrag responded, his smirk growing faintly wider to show his yellowed teeth and badly worn tusks. Libor snorted derisively.

"That is not my question," the chieftain clarified. "We are mighty warriors. We conquer all that we see. Yet we remain locked in these mountains. With each year we lose ground to humans, elves, and hobgoblins. Is this what the One Eye sees for us?"

"You do not see us as victorious?" Predrag inquired, turning away from the brazier and taking his spear in hand once more. "You do not think we will survive?"

"How can we?" Libor asked, frustrated. "What is it we must do? Why does the mongrel Hextor have grand cathedrals, and our mighty One Eye has only this crude shrine? Each year we take our rightful plunder in glorious battle, then give it back to the very same people we have conquered for their weapons!"

"And you do not like this," Predrag concluded. There was no malice in the ancient priest's voice, but Libor only grew more perturbed.

"We cannot do this forever!" the chieftain concluded angrily. "We survived the winter by using human slaves, but even now half the tribe demands their deaths and the destruction of the farms! And it was the One Eye's own vision!"

"No orc wishes to be a farmer," Predrag observed.

"We are not farmers!" Libor roared in fury. Predrag nodded sagely, leaning forward on his spear as he locked his one good eye on the chieftain.

"You seek something more," the old priest said. "You are envious of Trzebin, and the stories told to you by orcs who have seen the mighty city."

"Why do they have such a place, while we live in tents?" Libor asked.

"We do not build," Predrag explained. Libor slammed the butt of his spear on the floor.

"Slaves can build for us!" the chieftain bellowed. Predrag smiled.

"Slaves can do many things," the old priest said. "How many do we have?"

The chieftain hesitated for a moment.

"Not enough to build a city," Libor answered quietly. "And the others…"

"Orcs are proud of their heritage," Predrag explained. "Change will not come easily, if at all. It will take all of your strength, all of your fury, and all of your will to bring change to this tribe. Are you ready to undertake such a task?"

"You… approve of this?" Libor asked.

"You are our chieftain," Predrag stated in reply. "You are the strongest, the wisest, and the greatest among us. The One Eye has blessed you many times in the past, even over rivals that have also revered his name and followed his teachings."

"If the tribe were to hear that the One Eye approved of the changes I wish to make, they would be more willing to accept the farms and the slaves," Libor reasoned. "You must show your support of this, Predrag. If the priests of the One Eye say it is not against his teachings, then they have no choice!"

Predrag said nothing for a long moment, gazing into the embers of the brazier.

"There may be something I can do for you," the old priest finally said, raising his good eye to the chieftain again.

"I need you to back me!" Libor exclaimed. "If it is the One Eye's will, then you must show your support!"

"There is something, something more important than an old priest's opinion on slaves and farms," Predrag said, using the tip of his spear to swirl the burning embers. The priest remained lost in thought for a moment, studying the fire. "Something more important than any orc," he continued, looking up. The brazier cast his face in a hellish glow as a renewed vitality seemed to come to his ancient features. "Return to me soon, Libor. Soon, we will know if the One Eye does indeed favor your ideas."

"A vision?" Libor concluded, all too aware of Predrag's oracle-like status. The old priest said nothing. "When?" the chieftain pressed eagerly.

"Soon," Predrag replied. "But for now, celebrate. The equinox is upon us, and the Bloody Fist has proven to be the strongest of all the tribes. Celebrate the spoils of a year blessed in the vision of the One Eye."

Libor nodded slowly, his dissatisfaction with the answer apparent in his eyes.

"Celebrate," Predrag stated again, "for if the One Eye does allow me this vision, it will likely be the last celebration you see for some time."


	5. Unease

**IV**

"To our honored dead! May they feast with the One Eye tonight!"

"To our honored dead!" the others roared in unison. Ondrej, standing in the center of the great feast hall that had been erected for the autumn celebrations, raised his wooden tankard over his head as he led the salute to the fallen members of the Bloody Fist tribe. The war chief strode proudly through the piles of pillaged goods strewn across the rough earthen floor of the hide and wood lodge, snatching up a monstrous maul of blackened steel and equally black wood and resting it on his shoulder. Ondrej took an arrogant swagger as he came to a stop in front of the tribe's most grisly trophy.

"And to our enemies, may they suffer the same fate as Dainis!" the war chief exclaimed, smashing his flagon into the rotting, desiccated head of the former war chief of the Cruel Blade tribe. The macabre prize, impaled on a stake in the center of the hall, was easily Ondrej's most coveted treasure; even after Dainis' body had been impaled on the boundaries of the Bloody Fist's territory he demanded the head be brought back for display during the autumn feast. Libor smiled faintly as he watched his war chief raise his fallen enemy's maul over his head with one hand and take a long drink from the tankard in his other. The other orcs in the hall, the greatest of Libor's warriors and berserkers, cheered loudly for the victorious war chief. Every one of them had heard of, if not seen personally, the fight between Dainis and Ondrej when the two tribes had clashed in the spring. Ondrej still bore notable scars from the battle, in particular on his shoulder. He now proudly displayed the marks where his bones had ripped through his skin under the force of the maul he now lifted, colored with angry red dyes to tattoo them to prominence.

"And to Libor, the Bloody Fist, who has followed the One Eye's vision to greater glory and greater victories!" Ondrej continued, turning from the rotting trophy to his chieftain.

"To Libor Bloody Fist!" the warriors bellowed, raising their tankards once more. Libor raised his own tankard, a flagon of bronze with an etched ivory handle, and took a long drink to the toast in his name.

"And to the farm he has so bravely planted!" came a derisive addition. The feast hall's raucous cheers died down almost instantly, allowing several subdued laughs to be heard among the orcs. Across the hall, standing near the great fire where a huge stag turned slowly on a spit, Miran, the Single Tusk, stood with his tankard raised, a veritable challenge to the chieftain that had just been lauded by his warriors. Libor stood slowly, his heavy square jaw set firmly in anger. Miran remained where he stood, unflinching despite the increasingly menacing stance his chieftain assumed.

"To Miran," Libor stated coldly, "who bravely begged for food from my farm as the long winter brought him to the brink of starvation. And to his wives and children, who grew fat and complacent on the food from my farm."

Miran's face darkened with anger, his yellow eyes locked on the chieftain. For a long, tense moment the assembled warriors fell into silence as they braced for a fight, uncommon so early into the feast.

A hearty laugh suddenly broke through the silence, dispelling the tension almost instantly. Zdeno, reclining on a heavy bearskin rug, had burst into a fit of laughter at Libor's icy rebuttal. The berserker's hilarious reaction infected those around him quickly, sending waves of mirth throughout the feast hall. Miran's face screwed into a mask of rage and humiliation directed at both Zdeno and Libor, but the Single Tusk's murderous fury was lost in the amusement of the other warriors.

"And to Zdeno!" Ondrej shouted, a broad smile on his face as he turned to the hulking orc. "Who has managed to eat more in one day than all my wives and children through the entire summer!"

Zdeno roared with hilarity at the mock toast, one common from Ondrej every year. The other warriors fell back into their raucous laughter as Zdeno hurled a wooden tankard across the room at the war chief, missing by only the slimmest margin as Ondrej ducked out of the way with a laugh.

"And your aim is getting worse!" the war chief added. Zdeno feigned anger, but he could barely keep his laughter bottled up long enough to take a step. The crowd grew even louder as the huge orc stood and, halfway through his rush at Ondrej, stopped to tear a chunk of meat from the roasting deer with a broad smile on his face. Ondrej quickly joined the feasting Zdeno, throwing one arm around the orc and raising his tankard skyward with the other. "And to all our warriors!" the war chief exclaimed. "We are the greatest of all the tribes!"

"To the Bloody Fist!" the orcs bellowed in unison. The lodge fell into merry chaos as the warriors descended on the food and drink, congratulating each other and boasting of their individual victories. Miran's cold gaze lingered on the chieftain a moment longer, but finally Libor and the Single Tusk were distracted by their fellow warriors bringing food, drink, and stories of glory gained over the summer. The chieftain's hard demeanor softened as younger orcs, newly admitted to the highest echelons of the Bloody Fist tribe, boasted of the exploits that had given them their positions in Libor's own lodge. Among the younger orcs sitting farther from the feast and the summer's plunder, one determined, broad shouldered berserker stood, his face and chest scarred by only a few major battles.

"For my chieftain, Libor Bloody Fist!" the young warrior called out, raising his tankard high. Ondrej laughed as he turned to the youngster.

"We have already saluted our chieftain!" the war chief pointed out with a hearty laugh. The young orc remained standing, egged on by his comrades.

"We have brought much plunder back from the cowardly humans of Tourant!" he continued. "In return for the honor of joining the tribe's great war parties, I wish to offer my chieftain a gift, taken in glorious combat from my raids!"

The feast hall's rowdy atmosphere died slightly as the orcs turned to the speaker. Although uncommon, it was hardly unknown for a young warrior to offer a gift to the chieftain in return for being admitted to the greatest feast hall of the tribe.

"What is your name, warrior?" Libor asked, standing.

"Vratislav," the youngster declared proudly. Blue and black streaks marked his first great scar, a vicious slash across his chest.

"And how did you receive that?" Libor inquired, gesturing to the tattooed scar. Vratislav's chest puffed out in pride.

"In combat with a Tourant Lancer!" he replied eagerly. "The human rode his horse, trying to take an unfair advantage, but as he charged I ducked low under his spear and cut out his horse's legs with my axe! The horseman fell to the ground, but the horse had knocked me aside, giving him time to regain his balance! I could see the fear in the human's eyes as he turned on me, but to his credit he still attacked his natural superior. His spear slashed through my chest here, but I gladly accepted such a wound to move in and chop down, cutting his arm from his body! The human fell to the ground, wailing in pain, but for such an act I did deliver him a warrior's death, taking his head from his shoulders!"

"Well done," Libor said with a smile. "Although many humans are cowards, the Tourant Lancers occasionally offer even an orc a worthy challenge."

"This one did," Vratislav agreed. "He wielded a spear of excellent quality, of brightly polished steel and a firm, thick haft. It is not a hobgoblin weapon, but I feel that it is at least as good, maybe better. Please, accept my gift in return for allowing me the glory of raiding this summer."

Libor watched as one of Vratislav's companions moved to his side, handing the weapon over to the young warrior. Vratislav in turn held the weapon out to his chieftain in offering.

"Keep it," Libor said simply. Vratislav's amber eyes opened wide. Once again the feast hall fell into silence. It was not the first time a gift had been refused, but neither Vratislav nor his gift had done anything to anger the chieftain.

"But… it… it is a gift," the young orc stammered, shocked at the refusal. Ondrej's face also knit into an expression of puzzlement. "Is… is it not a fine weapon?"

"It is a fine weapon," Libor confirmed.

"Then… why will you not accept it?" Vratislav asked, too confused to hold his tongue.

"It is an excellent gift," Ondrej added, stepping up behind the warrior. The war chief remained outwardly calm, but a note of urgency was creeping into his voice. "Surely you will honor him by accepting it."

"Bring it to Stribog," Libor decided. The hushed feast hall broke into quiet murmurs.

"Stribog?" Vratislav finally repeated, uncertain of the name.

"Stribog?" another orc, Dobroslav, echoed as he stood up. The veteran skirmisher grew hot with anger as he continued. "I led Vratislav on that raid! We traveled even further into the human lands than any raiders! The battle and the gift are both worth your acceptance!"

"And I have accepted it," Libor said, turning to Dobroslav. "I have accepted it as the pattern that Stribog will use to create spears made by orcish hands."

"Orcs do not make weapons!" yet another warrior, the berserker Javor, shouted as he stood. "We take weapons!"

"This has gone far enough, Libor!" Miran added, standing once more. "We have accepted your farms, cowardly as they are, but this? Orcs, making weapons? You are mad!"

"I refuse to give the flat heads of Trzebin any more tribute!" Libor exploded. The sudden force of the chieftain's retort silenced the feast hall. "We are the strongest! We are conquerors and warriors! Our fury and strength is unmatched by any! Yet each year we give the hobgoblins everything we take, and for what? I will not give the spoils of my victories to merchants and thieves!"

For a long moment the feast hall lay in stunned silence, the only sound coming from the crackling fire.

"_Bogalj_ cannot fight," Zdeno finally reasoned. "Let them make me a spear."

"No!" Javor shouted. "Let the _bogalj_ find their way to a good death! You cannot make them enter the feast halls of the One Eye as cripples!"

"I will not make weapons if I am ever crippled!" Miran exclaimed. "You will make us into unscarred weaklings!"

"You are already smooth skinned and weak!" Zdeno countered, standing and throwing his food aside. Miran turned a furious retort to his rival, but the words were lost as the feast hall erupted into chaos. Arguments and insults were replaced almost instantly by punches and kicks as the orcs fell upon each other. Libor watched the tribe fall into anarchy around him, fighting to keep his calm in the eye of the raging storm. Just in front of him, Ondrej hurled Vratislav aside in his haste to reach the embattled chieftain.

"Is this what you wanted?" Ondrej screamed, his voice barely audible over the turmoil. "Is this your grand future for our tribe, Libor?"

Libor said nothing, clenching his jaw to keep silent. The restraint only spurred Ondrej to greater rage.

"You are destroying us!" the war chief bellowed. Libor suddenly felt himself moving, and within a heartbeat he had grabbed Ondrej firmly by the throat. The surprised war chief began to raise his fists to strike, but by the time he had moved Libor's elbow smashed into his face, crushing his nose and splitting open his lip. Libor still did not relinquish his grip as he dragged the addled Ondrej close.

"I am trying to save us!" the chieftain roared. Ondrej stared hatefully back at his chieftain. Frustrated, embarrassed, and close to rage, Libor hurled his war chief back into the swirling melee, then barged his way through the mess to the cold night outside.

* * *

><p>The interior of the temple of the One Eye was black and silent in the predawn hours, its tiny windows unable to capture even the faintest glow from the setting moon. Despite the inky darkness,<br>Predrag moved across the rough flagstones silently, his steps certain as he made his way behind the enormous statue of Gruumsh. Only the occasional thump of the ancient cleric's spear on the floor marked his movements, leading up to the largest of the blackened braziers. For a moment  
>Predrag stopped in front of the extinguished brazier, his hands slowly reaching into his robes to find a pinch of sulfur.<p>

"Send me the spark of your rage," the old priest whispered, his raspy voice carrying through the stillness of the temple. The brazier ignited with a heavy intake of air, a cloud of fire billowing up momentarily before settling back into the coals of the bowl. Predrag's one good eye focused on the swirls of heat within the coals for a long moment, following the patterns of fire as they crawled through the newly awakened embers.

"I did not know you to give tribute at such late hours of the night, Predrag," a voice said from behind the ancient priest. Predrag's withered face curled up faintly in a smile. "Have the events of the night driven you here at such an odd time?"

"The One Eye does not always show in advance the time when his counsel is necessary, Domen," Predrag said, his eye still focused on the glowing coals. "Nor does he reveal such times to all."

"The Bloody Fist staggers under the weight of its leader, Predrag," Domen said, his faint footsteps growing closer to the brazier. "Your Libor is losing his way among the trappings of weaker races."

"Or perhaps the rest of us have lost our way in the frenzy of battle," Predrag countered, finally turning to the newcomer. Younger, taller, and broader than the wizened, stooped Predrag, Domen wore his coarse black hair shorter than most in a wild, unkempt mess that stuck up in several directions at once from his meticulously scarred face. "Perhaps we need our leader now more than ever to guide our way through."

"He has divided the tribe tonight," Domen stated, his tone accusatory. "He makes orcs farm, and now wishes to deny the _bogalj_ their last opportunity at glory and a good death. In the past other leaders, great as they may have been, have fallen to the complacency that comes with leadership. Only the greatest can truly hold to their rage when the very virtue of their position forces them out of the thick of battle."

"Do you think Libor Bloody Fist unfit for his title?" Predrag inquired, his thin lips curled into a smirk.

"There is no other way to see it," Domen answered. "Perhaps he is suited to hobgoblins, but not to the glory of orcs."

"Perhaps," Predrag conceded, turning back to the embers. Domen paused a moment, obviously expecting more from his ancient superior.

"It would be dangerous for one to be seen supporting such a leader," the younger priest continued when Predrag said nothing more. "Such blasphemies could only be supported by the weak, or the insane."

For a moment the temple remained silent and still, interrupted only by the faint hiss of the brazier. Finally, Predrag responded to the veiled threat with a raspy chuckle.

"Do you wish to take my place, boy?" the ancient priest inquired, turning back to his acolyte. Domen refused to shrink away from the old orc's menacing gaze.

"You were old when I was a boy, Predrag," the younger priest pointed out. "How many years have you lived, following the fortunes of the Bloody Fist? How is it possible to cheat death for so long? Cowardice, perhaps?"

"Perhaps the One Eye has decided that it is not yet my time to join him," Predrag stated, taking a step towards his rival. "Perhaps I am still here because there is no other orc with enough understanding of the One Eye's vision to take my place."

"Perhaps your vision has become shrouded with your age," Domen countered, holding his ground.

"If it is a challenge you seek, then make one," Predrag stated, his raspy voice growing stern. "Even now I can destroy an insolent child like you, Domen."

Domen hesitated for a long moment, weighing his chances of winning a confrontation against the ancient cleric.

"Your fate is tied to that of your chosen, Predrag," the younger priest decided, evading a direct challenge. "When he falls, so too will you."

"The One Eye has gifted you with some sliver of vision," Predrag said, a condescending tone to his voice. "Good, Domen. Use it. Grow stronger, for if I do fall with Libor, you must be a far stronger priest for the new leader than you are now."

Domen growled faintly at the challenge to his ability, but said nothing more. For a long moment the two priests appraised each other, until Domen, apparently satisfied with his warnings, turned and strode out of the temple. Alone once again, Predrag turned back to the glowing embers of the brazier.

"Show me," the ancient priest said, swirling his spear through the coals. "Grant me your vision."

* * *

><p>It was the first time in many years that he had not awoken from the autumn feast with a spectacular hangover.<p>

Ondrej found himself awake far earlier than usual, if he indeed had slept that night at all. The war chief had spent long hours staring at the roof of his tent, and as the sunlight filtered in through the flaps and smoke hole he found himself far too familiar with every crack in the dried poles above his head. To his left, his first wife, Ruzena, slumbered peacefully, while off to his right, his most recent wife, Libena, tossed in fitful sleep.

Ondrej let his gaze linger on his young prize, taken after the sound defeat of a tiny upstart tribe in midsummer, but his pleasure at the attractive female faded into worry again over the previous night's events. Silently the war chief crawled from under the heavy furs he had shared with his two chosen for the night, dressing with care not to wake his females. Ordinarily he would have done the opposite, making sure they awoke to take care of his tent and children, but this morning he did not want to deal with the problems females inevitably brought. However, as he stepped into his heavy boots, a faint stirring from the furs caught his attention.

"Husband?" Libena asked sleepily, propping herself up on her elbows. Her face was faintly bruised from the previous night's activities; perhaps Ondrej had been too rough with the youngster.

"See to my possessions," the war chief ordered. He stopped only long enough to take his morning star from its resting place near the tent flap, and stepped out into the bright morning sun.

The first day of autumn usually brought a more subdued atmosphere to Bijelo Polje, but after Libor's apparently insane rantings at the feast the village was abnormally quiet. On the terraces where the slaves still toiled away, the orcs posted to guard their prisoners beat them even more ruthlessly than normal. Females went about their business with their gazes on the ground, avoiding eye contact with the uneasy warriors of the tribe. Unwilling to dwell on the current state of his tribe, Ondrej quickly started along the paths down to the gates of Bijelo Polje in search of something to ease his mind.

"War chief!" a familiar voice called out behind him. Ondrej stopped but did not turn, listening to Miran hurry to catch up with him. "You are awake early," the raider observed as he came to Ondrej's side.

"I did not sleep well," Ondrej grumbled, resuming his pace.

"Our chieftain has had that effect on many orcs," Miran remarked, walking alongside the war chief. Ondrej shot a sideways glance to the warrior. "Feasts ended early, yet no orc found a comfortable bed. Or wife, for that matter."

"I'm certain you have a point to this, Miran," Ondrej prompted, stopping and turning to the raider.

"Come with me," the Single Tusk said simply. He turned and started along a side street that arced back up to the tents of some of the tribe's most powerful warriors. Ondrej watched him for a long moment, until he turned back to the war chief. "Follow," Miran reiterated. Ondrej continued to pause, already guessing what the raider had in mind. Finally, however, he slowly started after the Single Tusk.

Miran's path led the two up to a very familiar tent. Dobroslav, a raider renowned throughout the Bloody Fist for his war party's ability to travel great distances and deliver lightning quick, deadly raids, was one of the most influential of the tribe's warriors, only a step or two below Ondrej himself. Miran did not hesitate at the tent, simply ducking under the partially open flap without a word. Ondrej lingered a moment at the opening, but finally steeled his will and entered Dobroslav's home.

Inside, the bright sunlight streamed down through a large central chimney, proudly displaying Dobroslav's collection of trophies taken from Tourant villages and elven enclaves. Ondrej's eyes only barely took in the raider's material wealth, however, as his gaze focused immediately on the other occupants of the tent.

"I see Miran persuaded you to join us," Dobroslav said, standing just on the other side of the fire ring in the center of the tent. Behind him, Javor, the berserker, idly studied the tip of a spear near Dobroslav's snow white sleeping furs. "That is good."

"What is this?" Ondrej asked, looking to each of the three orcs. Javor turned a cold gaze on the war chief.

"I was up early this morning," the berserker stated. "So I know what the tribe looks like right now. We can only thank the One Eye that Oleksandr cannot see this."

"The tribe is tense," Ondrej conceded. Miran snorted out a derisive chuckle.

"Tense?" Dobroslav repeated. "Vratislav is my blood! My brother's son! And he is dismissed despite his glorious actions in battle with a mounted lancer?"

"Libor had a reason, I am sure," Ondrej stated quietly.

"His reason is to turn us into smooth skinned weaklings!" Dobroslav roared. "I will not see our tribe suffer such insults!"

"Your voice, Dobroslav," Javor said simply. On the verge of launching into a tirade, Dobroslav roughly kicked one of the fire ring's stones before turning away in anger.

"Dobroslav is right," Miran said evenly. "Our tribe is weakened by our chieftain."

"He has led us to many victories," Ondrej countered.

"All in the past," Miran noted. "Many great chieftains have gone drunk with power. Perhaps Libor has had more than his share of the leadership."

"If you wish to challenge him, be warned," Ondrej stated. "He will kill you."

"Libor is still a fierce warrior, and his skill is nearly unmatched," Javor agreed.

"Nearly unmatched," Miran stressed.

"And who among you thinks you can defeat him?" Ondrej inquired. Miran smiled faintly.

"You," the Single Tusk answered. Ondrej stared at him for a long moment.

"Me," the war chief said.

"You are his equal," Javor said, dropping the spear and stepping past Dobroslav. "You can defeat him! You defeated Dainis, and Dainis was the greatest warrior in the mountains!"

"You ask me to fight a chieftain that has brought us great fortune," Ondrej said. Dobroslav whirled back to the war chief.

"I ask you to kill him before his lunacy destroys us all!" the raider countered. "He will make us into the very things we prey upon! You must defeat him, or the Bloody Fist will be destroyed!"

"How can you be so sure?" Ondrej asked.

"Listen to yourself!" Javor exclaimed. "You already know the answer to your question! Farms, _bogalj_ crafting weapons! What will he have us do next? Build little towns and hide behind walls like humans?"

"He will destroy us, Ondrej," Miran said. "You know it just as we do."

"The One Eye has not abandoned us yet," Ondrej said, hesitant. "Libor has been a strong leader. Perhaps we should give him the winter to rethink his ways. In the spring, if he insists on such cowardly ways of thinking, I will act."

"Why are you still loyal, Ondrej?" Miran demanded in frustration. "He has grown weak! He does not deserve our loyalty any more! I know you've seen it, just in the short walk from your tent. Each day the tribe grows more divided. Each day Libor's insane new ideas destroy the bonds that hold us together! By the spring, there may be no tribe left to save!"

"Maybe," Ondrej conceded, "but it has not come to that yet."

"It has, Ondrej!" Miran pressed, grabbing the war chief by the shoulder. Ondrej whirled and slapped the raider's hand away.

"Do not touch me!" the war chief threatened, one hand already to his morning star. Miran backed up a step, putting his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I will not fight him now! He still has time!"

"As you wish, war chief," Miran stated, his voice full of disdain. Ondrej glared at the raider for a moment before Javor's voice broke the tense silence.

"If you are not with the tribe, you are against it," the berserker warned. "Choose sides carefully, Ondrej. For once it has begun, there will be no mercy."

Ondrej's cold gaze lingered on Javor for a moment, before he finally backed out of the flap into the daylight again.

* * *

><p>"How dare he brush me aside."<p>

"It was going to happen sooner or later, Kaja," Pavla stated, rolling out a wad of dough across the crude stone table used for making bread. "Do not pretend otherwise."

"She is a rude child," Kaja growled, taking out her frustrations on the heavy masses of dough set out on the table. Behind the two females, a pair of younger wives, married to lesser warriors of the tribe, ground down the grain taken from Tourant storehouses into the flour that Kaja and Pavla would use to make the rough, unleavened bread that the tribe would use for the winter. The heavy stone grinding wheel made a constant, dull rumble as the two females pushed it along its track, a job reserved for the younger and less accomplished of the orcs' wives. Still, by Pavla's standards it was a far cry above the tanning done by the wives and widows of the lowest orcs of the tribe.

"She is Libor's wife," Pavla corrected, turning back to her friend.

"She is barely worthy of a warrior just out of his trials, much less the greatest chieftain in the mountains," Kaja retorted, taking one hunk of bread that was ready to the large, dome shaped clay ovens next to them.

"Would that it was for you to decide," Pavla stated, pausing for a moment to regard her fellow female. "You should simply be surprised that he took no wives for so much time as it is. Thirteen years? I should have been so lucky with my Zdeno. I was given only two years before he took Svatava. But before long, we became friends. I'm sure it will be the same. You just need time to adjust to her."

"He did not even want her!" Kaja snarled, turning on Pavla. "It was the others! There was no need for Libor to marry!"

"Do not fool yourself, Kaja," Pavla said with a sarcastic smile. "We are not young any more. We have our baubles and our children, but soon we will be barren. Better you accept that now, for what good is a wife that can no longer give birth?"

"I will have more children," Kaja stated with a tone of finality. Pavla snorted faintly.

"Have you told him of your miscarriages?" she inquired simply. Kaja nearly threw her crude rolling pin across the table at her closest friend. Behind them, the two younger orcs hesitated for a moment in their grinding, until a harsh stare from Pavla startled them back into their work.

"Do not speak of that," Kaja growled, keeping her voice as low as possible. "It was the winter, that is all. Many females had similar problems over the winter."

"That only explains one," Pavla said. Kaja's face darkened with anger.

"I will have more children," she repeated sternly, evading any further explanations. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, but the other females, if they had heard, played ignorant of the conversation.

"Perhaps one more," Pavla conceded. "I hope for one more, perhaps one last daughter before my time is through. But make no mistake, soon we will be barren, and soon after that we will be crones."

"My Libor will keep me," Kaja said, rolling down the dough with a renewed, angry vigor. Pavla shook her head.

"Only you, Kaja," Zdeno's wife said. "Only you. With such stubbornness you should have been born a male. You should hope that your Libor makes such a change along with farms and _bogalj_ making weapons."

Kaja growled at the reference to Libor's odd behavior over the preceding weeks, but said nothing. Pavla chuckled at her silence.

"We all will become crones one day, Kaja," she explained. "There is no shame in it. We will become the teachers, and long after Libor is gone you will be able to glorify his every deed to the new warriors, and perhaps even the new chieftain, of the Bloody Fist."

Kaja said nothing more, but threw down her rolling pin and stormed off into Bijelo Polje. For a long moment the two younger females watched the chieftain's wife disappear, until one of them turned back to Pavla.

"She had two miscarriages?" the young female asked. Pavla bared her tusks faintly.

"You will tell no one," Zdeno's wife instructed sternly. "Or I will see to it that you boil hides for leather until long after your husband is dead."

* * *

><p>"Few are the chieftains that spend so much time in devotion to the One Eye."<p>

"Predrag," Libor said, standing and turning from the great statue of the One Eye to the ancient priest. Predrag nodded in reply.

"You have come for a reason?" the priest inquired.

"Tell me that there is something more," Libor said, desperate for any kind of news. "Tell me that I am not insane, or that I am not a blasphemer. Tell me that the Bloody Fist will find new glory."

"The previous night's events trouble you," Predrag concluded.

"Few are willing to listen to me when I speak of change," Libor said. "You must tell them that the One Eye accepts the changes I wish to bring!"

"Even the Chosen can disagree," Predrag stated. "For while I would welcome greater glory to the orcs, Domen would see things in a different way."

"Then I am doomed," Libor assumed. The proud chieftain's eyes dropped to the ground. Predrag shook his head

"All is not lost, chieftain," the ancient priest stated. Libor's gaze snapped back up to the wizened orc.

"What do you mean?" he asked, expectant.

"You wish my help in making our tribe into something different?" Predrag inquired. "Something more than we already are?"

"You have had your vision?" Libor pressed. Predrag smirked faintly.

"It is possible that I can help you," the ancient priest said. "But there is something I wish in return."

"Name it," Libor said without hesitation.

"I want Borivoj," Predrag stated. A hint of Libor's eagerness fled from his face. "He will be my acolyte."

"A chieftain's sons… are to be warriors," Libor pointed out hesitantly. Predrag chuckled, a raspy, wheezing sound that carried through the temple.

"And certainly, he would be a competent warrior," the cleric mused, scratching at the thin wisps of white hair on his pointed chin. "Never to achieve great glory, certainly incapable of anything Jiri will ever accomplish, but competent."

"That is not fair," Libor said. "He has my blood in him. He will strengthen as he matures."

"Of that I am certain," Predrag agreed. "He will never be more than a shadow of Jiri, or even Bela, but he will be able to march to his death quickly enough."

"My sons must be warriors!" Libor exclaimed. "A chieftain's sons are always warriors!"

"You ask other orcs to put aside their traditions, to farm, to make weapons, but you will not make such sacrifices yourself?" Predrag asked. Libor opened his mouth to retort, but could offer no argument against the priest.

"He… is my son," Libor finally managed. "I wish to see him succeed."

"And he will," Predrag assured the chieftain. "For not every orc's calling is as a warrior. How many times has one of the One Eye's Chosen swayed the course of battle? How many times have the Chosen altered the course of history? How many orcs tremble at the mention of ancient Predrag? Would you not wish Borivoj to gather such glory himself?"

Libor hesitated again, his eyes searching for something in the ancient priest's scarred and wrinkled face.

"In due time, Jiri may very well become chieftain," Predrag continued. "He will need a Chosen to counsel him. If the One Eye calls me before that time, who will guide him?"

Libor remained silent and still. The faint hissing of the braziers' embers was all that broke the silence of the temple.

"You will have Borivoj," Libor finally relented. He could barely utter the sentence through locked tusks, but the answer was enough for Predrag.

"You have made a wise decision," the ancient priest said. "Borivoj will achieve great glory, in due time."

"Your vision," Libor said, eager to leave the matter of his son behind. "You have had one?"

Predrag said nothing for a moment as he wandered back through the temple, once more using his spear as a cane. "Do not torment me like this, Predrag. Tell me!"

"When I was young, before my Year of Trial, I dreamed once," the ancient priest said, still ambling through the temple. "I saw an orc, proud and tall, standing on a mountain of bodies. In his bloody hands, he held a great spear, its wide blades serrated and dripping with blood. Indeed, blood coated the entire spear, dripping in great black drops from the thick, gnarled haft. The countless bodies were of every race. Elves and humans, goblins and dwarves, but beneath were the bodies of many orcs."

"What does this mean?" Libor asked. Predrag finally turned back to the chieftain, his one good eye measuring the orc for a long moment.

"For many years I wondered about the meaning of that vision," Predrag said. "When I put out my eye in my desire to gain the One Eye's favor, I caught a fleeting glimpse of it, the last image my left eye would ever see. Over time, I came to think the vision was nothing more than a dream, just a hope for the future."

"And now?" Libor asked. The chieftain's voice grew faintly eager.

"You want to be that orc," Predrag concluded. Libor said nothing, but his eyes showed all the answer Predrag needed. "You think the vision was of you?"

"Tell me!" Libor demanded.

"It can be you," Predrag said, finally giving in to the chieftain's impatience. "But it is the spear, not the orc, that is important in the vision."

"I… don't understand," Libor said.

"_Krvavi Puet_," Predrag said simply. Libor stopped, stunned by the name. Predrag smiled at the reaction.

"The One Eye's very spear?" the chieftain finally managed.

"The One Eye's very spear," Predrag confirmed. "When the One Eye ascended, he left his greatest relic, his spear, behind to inspire his people. For generations it passed through orcish hands, until it was lost to elven treachery and magic. But even the elves' Earth Mother could not hold such a sacred relic for long, and _Krvavi Puet_ disappeared altogether many centuries ago."

"But… as you say, it has been lost for centuries," Libor said. "How will I find it?"

"I have waited a very long time to find an orc worthy of wielding _Krvavi Puet_," Predrag said. "But to deem yourself worthy, you must find the weapon. You must hunt as He Who Never Sleeps did. You must track it endlessly, and only when the One Eye himself deems you worthy will you find it."

"Then… I will hunt it to the ends of the realm," Libor decided.

"Be warned, chieftain," Predrag said sternly, despite the confident, determined set to the chieftain's stance. "This quest is not one to be undertaken lightly. There will be great risks, both for you and your tribe. And few are the orcs that will honor an absent leader."

"I will do what must be done, for the glory of the One Eye and the betterment of my people," Libor declared. The chieftain's chest even puffed out with pride as he spoke. For the first time in many years, Predrag's hard features softened faintly as he looked upon the proud warrior, his smile growing more genuine.

"That you will," the ancient priest agreed, a wistful note to his raspy voice. He hesitated for a moment. "You have strength and fury," Predrag continued, "but _Krvavi Puet_ will not be found by these alone. You know the story of the elven girl."

"I know not to be taken in by their treachery, or the treachery of any wielder of the arcane," Libor stated. Predrag's characteristic sarcasm returned in his faint chuckle.

"Remember to see what is around you," the ancient priest corrected, "or you will be blinded by illusions of your own making. That is the lesson lost in the story of the One Eye's greatest mistake. It was not the elven girl, or a wielder of the arcane, but refusal to see what was plainly in front of him. You must not repeat the One Eye's mistake, or your eye will be the least of your losses."

Libor paused for a long moment, considering the old priest's words. Finally, he nodded.

"Tell me where to begin."


	6. Position

**V**

"It is getting cold."

"It is," Ondrej answered, not turning to look back to the person who had addressed him. On the highest ridge of Bijelo Polje, the war chief could see the entirety of his tribe, settling in for the night in their tents and lodges. Smoke from scores of small fires drifted up from the chimneys of the homes, disappearing into the last fading lights of the autumn evening. Ondrej's breath was just barely visible in puffs of steam, a sure sign of the quickly approaching winter. Behind him, the newcomer walked up to the edge of the plateau and looked out over Bijelo Polje for a moment.

"I would think that your wives will be missing you soon, Ondrej," the newcomer said, crossing his thickly scarred arms across the leather and bone tunic he wore. Slightly shorter and significantly smaller than the war chief, the newcomer's face was badly disfigured by fire scars, to the point that much of the hair on the right side of his scalp would never grow back. Ondrej snorted faintly as he turned to his visitor.

"They can take care of themselves for a little while, Darko," the war chief stated. Darko smiled faintly, his one good amber eye turning to the larger orc.

"What is it that brings you up here, brother?" Darko inquired, pushing back the thick umber hair that remained on the left side of his head. Ondrej kicked at the ground for a moment.

"You saw the autumn feast," the war chief finally said. "How can you ask me such questions?"

"Libor is insane," Darko said casually. Ondrej shook his head.

"Do you believe that?" the war chief asked. Darko spent a long moment in thought, rubbing absently at his milky, sightless right eye.

"What do you think?" the smaller orc inquired in reply. Ondrej shook his head.

"Brave enough to run into a fireball, but not to answer my question," the war chief stated.

"I am the runt of the litter," Darko said. "I needed to prove my strength and fury." The smaller orc paused for a moment before continuing with a bitter chuckle. "And still you made me a scout anyway."

"And you dodge my question like a scout," Ondrej countered. "My choice was well made."

Darko remained silent for a long moment, his mood darkening faintly at the challenge to his courage. The smaller orc looked to the secure slave pens that stood just outside the palisade before turning back to his brother.

"He started out well," the scout finally decided. "We needed… that," he said, pointing to the farm. "But I know too well what would have happened to me had the fireball taken more than my hair and an eye. I would not want to waste away making spears for other orcs to go to battle. He goes too far."

"He places great weight on the opinions of flat head merchants," Ondrej said, his gaze wandering to the terrace farms. "But… why don't the Chosen say anything? Libor acts as though Predrag approves of his mad vision, but the Chosen have said nothing."

"Have you asked the Chosen, brother?" Darko inquired. Ondrej dropped his eyes to the ground and shook his head. "Then perhaps it is time to do so," the scout suggested. "We are the warriors of the One Eye. If the One Eye wants a _bogalj_ to make weapons, then so be it. If not, then Libor must be deposed, before he destroys us."

"Bold words from you," Ondrej said. Darko smiled.

"It would be something to see my brother become chieftain," the scout remarked. Ondrej turned to the smaller orc. "Dobroslav has told me about their plan," Darko explained. "He asked me to find you, to see if you had given it more thought."

"I told them, after the winter," Ondrej said. Darko nodded.

"He told me that as well," the scout agreed. "And certainly not much can be done while the snow falls. But once spring comes, we have to be prepared. Don't forgo this chance, Ondrej. You have always wanted to be chieftain. Now is your time."

"Libor has led us to victory," Ondrej said. "Do I risk our tribe for my glory?"

Darko let out a low, humorless chuckle under his breath.

"If you challenge," the scout said, turning and starting to walk away, "it will be because the tribe is already at risk."

* * *

><p>"Good throw, good throw!"<p>

"If you're a female," Andraz countered, his long white tusks showing through in his sarcastic smile. Stannes turned a sour look on the faintly older orc.

"I haven't seen you throw as far," the burly youngster declared, pointing to his throw.

"Vratislav has seen me throw twice as far," Andraz stated, turning to his companion. "Isn't that right, Vratislav?"

The two young warriors waited for a long moment, but Vratislav said nothing. The orc sat off to the side, as he had for most of the past week, with the spear that Libor had rejected in his hands, oblivious to the world around him.

"Is he going to throw, or sit like a female and cry?" Stannes asked. The insult did not even register with the snubbed warrior.

"Vratislav!" Andraz exclaimed, picking up the nearest stone and hurling it at the warrior. Vratislav jumped with a start as the heavy, round rock thudded into the ground before him, instinctively readying the spear to fight off an enemy. "What is wrong with you, Vratislav?" Andraz demanded, following his throw to his fellow warrior. "You're making us look like weaklings! Three throws of the stone and you haven't even picked up the weight!"

"I do not wish to play games," Vratislav said, sitting back on the sidelines of the game.

"Find yourself a new partner," Stannes called out. "He still stings from his defeat at the hands of the Bloody Fist!"

"You'll be quiet or we'll cut out your tongue!" Andraz retorted, turning on Stannes and his companion. Stannes laughed in reply at the threat, but Andraz could spare his foe no more time as he turned back to Vratislav. "Let it go! The Bloody Fist is mad, your uncle has even said! Rejoin the fight or that weakling Stannes will win! What will your precious Ksenija think watching you sulk on the edge of the field rather than taking the weight like a true warrior!"

Vratislav glanced behind him for a moment, where a pair of young females were busy tending their chores in plain sight of the stone field. Ksenija, the Single Tusk's oldest daughter, was almost of age to marry and a perfect choice for a young warrior on the rise in the tribe. Her hips were wide and she had ample breasts, both perfect for child rearing, and her father's bloodline was one of the strongest in the tribe. But instead of taking heart from the female that might soon be his wife, Ksenija's desirable form only brought more frustration and anger to the warrior. How could he possibly expect Miran, the Single Tusk, one of the most powerful warriors of the Bloody Fist, to give his daughter to him after he had been spurned by the tribe's leader?

Vratislav looked down at the spear in his hands again. There was only one way to redeem himself in front of the tribe. Slowly the young orc stood, turning to the rises where the orcish leaders made their home.

"What are you doing?" Andraz asked, seeing him facing away from the stone field and not even paying attention to the females.

"I want to know why," Vratislav said in reply, looking back to the spear.

"Because he is crazed, that's why!" Andraz snapped, snatching the spear out of Vratislav's hands. Before he could try to grab it back Andraz hurled the weapon at the palisade that surrounded Bijelo Polje, impaling it in one of the logs of the wall. "Your uncle says it! I've heard Javor and the Single Tusk both say it as well! He will be dragged down like a sick dog before the end of winter!"

"Get my spear!" Vratislav snarled, growing rapidly angry with his companion. Andraz smiled.

"Finally, rage!" the warrior said. "Good! Get in there and cast the weight!"

Vratislav growled through locked tusks at Andraz, but stalked past his friend without further challenge. He had almost passed the three stones lying before Stannes and his comrade when the young warrior laughed.

"Are you casting or not?" Stannes demanded. Vratislav said nothing. "If you don't, we win!"

Without a word Vratislav turned to the stones, seizing the heaviest and lifting it over his head. Vratislav could feel his rage building, but with all his might he turned away from the smirking Stannes and hurled the weight down the long, narrow field. The heavy stone cracked off of Stannes' weight and bounced back up, landing a solid five yards past the smug warrior's own stone. Stannes' face dropped as Andraz hooted in celebration, but with his cast Vratislav, furious with his friends and raging at his humiliation in front of the entire tribe, strode past the field and wrenched the scorned spear from its resting place in the palisade. As he turned back, Andraz was already running up to him, a huge smile on his face.

"You did it!" the warrior exclaimed jubilantly. "What can Stannes do now except tuck his tail between his legs and admit that we're stronger!"

"Let him do what he wants," Vratislav said, shoving Andraz out of the way. The warrior was too stunned to show anger at the rough treatment.

"Vratislav!" Andraz called out behind him. "Where are you going?"

"To find out why!" Vratislav snapped back.

"Why what?" Andraz asked. Vratislav turned for only a brief moment, long enough to hold up the spear. Andraz's eyes widened in shock, and behind him, even Stannes' jaw dropped in astonishment.

"You… to…"

"You're going to Libor?" Stannes finished, hurrying to catch up with him.

"He will answer me," Vratislav snarled, turning back to the camp. Ahead of him, on the topmost rises of Bijelo Polje, the snubbed warrior's eyes fixed on the blood red tent where Libor himself lived.

"He's crazed!" Andraz called out. "Vratislav! He won't answer you, he'll just kill you!"

"Then I will have satisfaction!" Vratislav called out over his shoulder. His bold statement even caught Ksenija's attention, and she and her friend watched as the four young orcs, now attracting a crowd, marched up the rises to the home of the Bloody Fist himself.

By the time he had reached the tents of the Bloody Fist's mightiest warriors, Vratislav and Andraz were at the head of a mob of almost three dozen orcs, mostly youthful warriors that had been gaming as well but including Ksenija and almost a half dozen other young, unmarried females of the tribe. With so many following to see the young orc challenge the chieftain, Vratislav could not back down now, even if the march had given him enough time to realize that he could never defeat Libor himself. Stopping in front of the chieftain's grand tent, the snubbed warrior held the rebuked spear in one hand and his battle axe in the other.

"Strength, fury," the young warrior breathed. He took a deep breath, resigning himself to what had to be done. If he was to walk away now, he would know no end to his humiliation.

The heavy flap of Libor's tent lifted suddenly, and the Bloody Fist himself strode out into the daylight. With his heavy, battle scarred spear in one hand, the chieftain appraised the mob of young orcs before him for a moment.

"What is it?" Libor asked, his voice cold and unyielding.

"I want to know why," Vratislav demanded, holding up his spear. Libor barely glanced at the weapon.

"I do not need to answer a boy," the chieftain spat. He turned and began to walk toward the One Eye's temple.

The spear slammed into the earth before Libor within the space of a heartbeat. Dimly in the back of his mind he remembered that this was the Bloody Fist, the most powerful orc of his tribe, but Vratislav was so incensed by the insult that he did not care. He had seen his Year of Trial. He had fought in many battles, and his courage and rage had been honored with an invitation to the chieftain's own feast hall.

"I am no boy!" he bellowed. "I am Vratislav, warrior of the Bloody Fist, and I demand Right of Combat!"

Libor stuck his spear into the ground, a snarl seeping out through his clenched teeth. With one hand he snatched Vratislav's weapon from its resting place. Vratislav raised his axe in readiness, adrenaline coursing through him.

Libor surged forward with Vratislav's spear leveled. The young warrior screamed in bloodlust and raced headlong at his opponent. A brief flash of glory filled his mind, as he felled the great leader in vicious battle and ascended to become chieftain of the mighty tribe…

Libor dropped beneath his axe and reversed the spear, driving the butt of the weapon into Vratislav's chest with enough force to break ribs and double him over. The chieftain spun down to the ground in a lightning move, sweeping Vratislav's legs out from under him with the haft of the spear. The young warrior slammed onto his back, wheezing for breath and seeing nothing but stars. Vratislav tried to stand even without his senses or his breath, but before he could lift himself off the ground the wide blade of his spear tore through his shoulder and pinned him to the rocky ground. He let out a scream of pain before Libor's massive fist slammed down into his face, shattering his nose and knocking him senseless.

It should not have happened, but Vratislav regained his senses. Waves of agony rolled out from the spear that had pierced his left shoulder, but he was still alive. Libor knelt over him, one hand on the youngster's throat.

"It is a fine weapon," the chieftain stated. "And you are a brave warrior."

"Why do you insult me like this?" Vratislav asked through gritted teeth.

"Take up your spear," Libor stated. "I have use for you. If you are lucky, you will die in glorious battle in the One Eye's name. If you are very lucky, you will return to this tribe a hero."

Slowly Libor stood, his eyes lingering on the impaled warrior for a moment more. Finally, the chieftain turned and walked toward the One Eye's temple. Cautiously, Andraz moved forward, ready to help his friend.

"No!" Vratislav snapped, waving off his comrade. Andraz stalled.

"But…" the warrior began.

"I will do it!" Vratislav shrieked. With his free right hand, he grabbed the shaft of the spear and, taking a sharp, deep breath, put all that remained of his strength into a single, agonizing yank.

He was not sure if he had passed out, or if he had simply lost coherence for a moment from the pain. But as his senses returned, the young orc stumbled unsteadily to his feet. Silently the crowd of his comrades, Andraz, Stannes, and Ksenija among them, watched the bested young warrior as he placed a hand over the gaping wound in his shoulder. At Libor's tent, his wives and younger children gazed intently at the orc who had tried to slay their patron. He had been defeated, but he was not dead. Right of Combat seldom ended in such a way.

As honor dictated, Vratislav slowly followed his leader's path to the distant temple of the One Eye.

* * *

><p>Zdeno's tent, like Zdeno, was large.<p>

Zdeno's home was one of the largest tents on the highest rises of Bijelo Polje, befitting a warrior of his stature. Outside, the elk hide walls had been painted with the berserker's personal tales of great hunts and glorious raids, while the entrance was flanked by a pair of winter wolf skulls taken during the harsh winter.

It was here that Libor hesitated, his gaze idly following the paintings of the winter's trials against the winter wolves and Zdeno's part in the early spring defeat of the Cruel Blade tribe. Zdeno was one of the strongest members of the Bloody Fist, a devastating warrior on the battlefield with his huge, double bladed axe. As younger orcs they had been part of the same war party, and they had fought together, and even cast the weight together, more times than the chieftain could recall. Zdeno also was one of the few orcs that had not turned on him during the tumultuous week since the autumn feast. But that did not mean that the warrior would blindly follow Libor on a quest for what many believed was nothing more than a myth, and the chieftain was hesitant to give one of his last supporters a reason to disown him.

Libor's hand was forced as the tent flaps were pushed aside and Zdeno's youngest wife scurried out, leading two of the warrior's youngest children from the tent. She stopped as she caught sight of the embattled chieftain, frozen in place as her children rushed past her, too young to understand Libor's station.

"Chieftain," the female breathed out.

"I am here to see Zdeno," Libor explained. The wife nodded.

"He… is inside," she replied. Quickly she ducked back into the tent. "Husband, the chieftain is here to see you."

"Then do not leave him standing outside," Zdeno said from inside. "Libor, come in!"

Libor ducked through the flaps of the tent, stopping for a moment just inside. Zdeno's home was decorated with the furs of beasts he had brought down over the years as a hunter and nearly anything silver, from plates and goblets to a large tray that he kept polished to a mirror sheen. Zdeno himself sat back on a spacious bed of lashed pine covered with elk hides and thick bear furs, enjoying the attentions of his oldest wife, Pavla.

"I did not expect to see you today," Zdeno said, sitting up as Pavla rubbed his shoulders. "Are you here to boast of your defeat of Vratislav?"

"No," Libor answered simply. Zdeno shrugged.

"You did insult the boy," the hulking orc said. "But why leave him alive? Killing him would have soothed his honor."

"It would be pointless," Libor answered. "And we need our warriors. Oleksandr exacted a toll this spring."

"And we on him," Zdeno added. Libor nodded faintly at the warrior's amendment. "A glorious battle, one that will be remembered for generations to come," the hulking orc continued with a smile.

Libor nodded a second time at his companion's description of the battle, his eyes wandering across the many possessions that Zdeno had accumulated through years of raiding. After a long moment of silence, the chieftain's gaze came to rest on a battered dresser sitting beneath a heap of furs.

"I remember this," the chieftain said, running a finger along the dusty edge of the dresser. "From that female, all those years ago."

"She did not want to give it up," Zdeno said, smiling wistfully. "I had to take her arm at the shoulder just to keep her from trying to stab me with a knife. Even then she had fire left in her."

"It's still a miracle that you brought it all this way," Libor mused with a smile. He turned back to Zdeno. "I wasn't going to help you, that was certain."

"The female's son was strong enough to get it halfway back," Zdeno reminded the chieftain. He laughed. "Ah, the old days. When you still led our war party."

"Yes, the old days," Libor agreed, turning away from the hulking orc and gazing around the tent. Zdeno paused for a long moment before turning to his wife.

"Pavla, help Bozena with the children," the orc said. Pavla nodded and disappeared quickly through the flaps. Zdeno stood as she left, crossing his arms across his massive chest. Libor finally turned his attention back to his comrade.

"Do you think I'm mad?" the chieftain asked.

"I do not know what to think," Zdeno admitted. "You suggest many things that the tribe will not accept."

Libor nodded faintly. Once again the tent fell into silence.

"Have you ever seen Trzebin?" he inquired at last. Zdeno shook his head.

"A mountain atop a mountain, I have been told," he said. Libor nodded.

"When the flat heads come here to sell us weapons, they look on us with disdain," the chieftain said. "I have heard them, speaking in their own language, of how we are primitive and stupid. For many years I ignored them, thinking them ignorant of our glory. But, how can we be the glorious ones when their Hextor has huge cathedrals of stone, and the One Eye has only a pile of rocks for a temple?"

"I think you worry too much about flat heads," Zdeno said. "Each of us could take a dozen hobgoblins on our fury alone."

"Do you not see it?" Libor asked. "We have fought together for many years. But each year we remain locked in these mountains. Even the humans take our land!"

"Easier to raid them," Zdeno reasoned. Libor shook his head.

"How many flat heads have you killed?" the chieftain asked. Zdeno thought for a moment.

"Dozens, at least," the warrior answered.

"And how much gold and silver have you taken from them?" Libor asked. Zdeno shrugged.

"I have lost count," he replied.

"And your axe?" Libor pressed. "Did you take that too?"

"No," Zdeno answered. "The hobgoblins traded it with us."

"For the silver you took from them!" Libor finished. "We defeat them, and then give everything we take right back to them!"

"For their weapons," Zdeno finished.

"Do you not see?" Libor demanded, frustrated. Zdeno shrugged again.

"It is our way," he said. "We do not make weapons, we take weapons."

"We are not taking weapons!" Libor corrected. "We are giving them our rightful plunder for weapons! They set the price and make us pay it!"

Zdeno hesitated, finally seeming to understand the chieftain's point.

"It is the way things are," the warrior finally said with a helpless shrug.

"I want that to change," Libor said. "I want the unscarred humans and elves to fear us the way they do Trzebin! We are the strong! We should be recognized for it!"

"No _bogalj_ will consent to making weapons if they can find a last battle," Zdeno said. "Do you not remember the feast? They will kill you for it."

"Not if I find _Krvavi Puet_," Libor countered. Zdeno opened his mouth to answer, but he froze as the impact of the name hit him. "Predrag has told me of it," he continued. "I must seek it out, if we are to survive as a people. If we do not change, we will die, killed by the unscarred. Each year the humans, the goblins, and the elves drive us deeper into the mountains. If the coming winter is once again cold, we may lose our tribe. And if our tribe fails, so do all orcs."

"It… exists?" Zdeno asked quietly, still focused on the spear itself.

"We will find out together," Libor answered. "Like when we were young, new warriors together. We have fought many battles, Zdeno, and you have always been one of my greatest warriors. Few can match your scars and glory. But if we find _Krvavi Puet_, no orc will ever forget your name. Come with me, Zdeno. Let us show the smooth skinned humans and the treacherous elves that there is something far, far stronger than a flat head."

Zdeno said nothing for a long moment, simply staring at the chieftain. Libor began to suspect the warrior would turn on him when he finally answered.

"Winter is a slow time for raiding," Zdeno decided. He smiled faintly. "And Pavla begins to annoy me with her complaints. Let us find _Krvavi Puet_."

* * *

><p>"It is good that his father is not here to see this. Rostislav was a great warrior."<p>

"It is not the boy's fault," Javor stated simply. Dobroslav stood in the center of his tent, his eyes on the embers of the fire pit before him. Off to one side, Miran said nothing, examining one of the many skulls Dobroslav had taken from the elk he had hunted through the summer. "The mere fact that such a challenge came from one so young should shame us all."

"The shame is on him, and on Libor!" Dobroslav exclaimed suddenly, whirling on Javor. "Vratislav challenged, and he could not even manage to die like a true warrior! The entire amp speaks of it now! Of Vratislav being defeated and submitting like some unscarred human!"

"Libor is mad!" Miran put in, turning away from the elk skulls mounted along the tent posts. "My sons saw the battle, and they know that Vratislav fought with the courage and fury of a true orc! The shame falls to Libor, not to your nephew!"

"And now he follows that very same orc!" Dobroslav countered. "He would carry Libor's spear now!"

"As honor calls!" Miran finished. "That boy is only the most obvious of Libor's victims, and if we don't drag him down now we will all be destroyed!"

"Enough of this!" Javor ordered. "We stand in tents and conspire like flat heads, while Vratislav at least had the courage and fury to take his complaints directly to the chieftain! Who is the shamed one now, Dobroslav?"

Dobroslav turned a cold glare on the berserker, but could say nothing. For a long moment the tent fell into silence.

"He should have been strong enough to die like a true orc," the raider muttered one final time. Javor snorted in derision.

"A boy just through his Year of Trial is the one to challenge our mad chieftain," the berserker grumbled, shaking his head.

"You could challenge," Miran offered, turning to Javor. "You are one of our strongest. I would follow you before that lunatic."

"I learned the spear from Libor," Javor said. "There is little I know that he did not teach me."

"You fear him," Dobroslav growled. Javor snarled at the insult, but Miran stepped in quickly.

"Rightly so," the Single Tusk stated. "You and I do as well. That is why he is still chieftain. There are few who could stand against the chieftain, much less best him."

"It is the One Eye's will that he be removed," Dobroslav growled. "I will do it myself if I have to. That boy will not call my fury into question. None of you will!"

"Calm yourself, Dobroslav," Miran directed. "Getting yourself killed will do nothing for the glory of our tribe."

"Our chieftain's madness begins to affect us all," Javor noted. "Vratislav's challenge is proof of that."

"We need Ondrej," Miran stated. Javor nodded. "He defeated Dainis. He can defeat Libor."

"I have spoken to Darko," Javor said. "He says Ondrej will still wait until winter passes before he decides if he will challenge."

"Even our war chief becomes cautious like some unscarred female," Dobroslav snarled.

"He will challenge," Javor said. "We must be patient. And we must take care that the rest of the tribe does not become infected by the chieftain's weakness. Mighty Zdeno would allow himself to grow complacent and weak through Libor's insanity."

"Zdeno is a fat fool," Miran growled.

"Zdeno is likely the only other warrior in all of the Bloody Fist that could challenge Libor," Javor countered. "Put your feud with him aside, Miran. Gaining him will sway any others in the tribe back to the proper path."

"Zdeno is Libor's orc," Dobroslav said. "They raided together long before Libor became chieftain. He will not challenge."

"Then it is back to Ondrej," Javor decided. Dobroslav nodded.

"And if he does not challenge?" the raider inquired. Miran looked from one to the other.

"Then I will do it," the Single Tusk decided.

* * *

><p>He had never doubted the powers of the gods. The Chosen of the One Eye, and even the priests of the human Sun God, could perform miracles on the field of battle that could change the course of conflict. It was their motives that he questioned.<p>

It was a fundamental difference, one that truly separated Libor from Ondrej. As the war chief stood inside the doors of the One Eye's temple, he realized that it had been many months since he had last entered the temple or heard the invocations of the Chosen to guide the weapons of the Bloody Fist against their enemies. In truth, the temple only saw its interior filled in the beginnings of the raiding season; the spring equinox brought nearly every warrior, indeed even many wives and children, to the temple to hear Predrag's Blessing of Battle. During the summer, the temple and much of Bijelo Polje stood empty as the warriors and priests of the tribe ventured into Tourant or fought against neighboring tribes, rarely returning home until the autumn to feast to their victories and their glorious fallen comrades. Outside of a handful of prayers on the battlefields of the raiding season, it was the only time he truly showed devotion to the One Eye.

Libor, however, entered the temple nearly every day, especially now that he had begun his insane calls for farms and condemning _bogalj_ to the menial ask of making weapons. He worshiped the One Eye with a zeal that surpassed even many priests of the orcish god, although Ondrej could, in a way, understand the chieftain's fanaticism. He had been there when Libor, only a year from his Trial, had been almost fatally wounded during the pitched battle against the long gone Severed Hand tribe. Ondrej had near the young Libor when he had been impaled on an enemy's spear. Libor had killed his foe, but his own wound, so close to his heart, spurted out bright gouts of blood. The young warrior should have died, but suddenly Predrag, withered and ancient even then, appeared in the whirling melee. Ondrej had continued to fight as the old priest knelt down over Libor, placing one hand over his injury. Blood spat out even between the priest's fingers. Somehow, over the din of battle, Ondrej had heard the old priest's words to the young warrior, and they had remained burned into his memory over the years.

_He doesn't want you yet._

The blood had immediately stopped gushing out. Libor's eyes went wide, and the young warrior sprang back up with an impossibly loud scream of pain and fury. Libor's rage carried him back into the fight, carving a path through the Severed Hand that even the greatest warriors of the Bloody Fist envied. By the time the battle had ended, Libor had earned himself the glory of being the greatest warrior on the battlefield, even striking the killing blow against the Severed Hand's war chief.

And since that day, Libor and Predrag had been nearly inseparable.

Ondrej looked away from the icon of the One Eye, searching the dim interior for any sign of the ancient priest that had been so instrumental in Libor's rise to power. Had the farms and the crafting been Libor's idea, truly? Or was it the machinations of Predrag himself? Ondrej was suddenly struck with the unsettling idea, but there was little he could do about it now that he had entered the home of the Chosen.

"Greetings, war chief," a voice said from behind one of the temple's braziers. It was not the raspy, gravelly voice of Predrag, but a deeper, stronger tone. "It is not often that you come to seek the One Eye's counsel."

"He guides me on the battlefield," Ondrej explained, turning to Domen as the priest revealed himself from the shadows. Domen smiled faintly.

"There are few battles to be fought in winter," the priest stated, pushing his wild hair back as he approached. Like all priests of the One Eye, Domen's crimson robes were still stained with the blood of friend and foe alike. "What battle do you face?"

"None," Ondrej replied. He thought briefly of the conspiracy that had been presented to him by his closest allies and even his last living brother. "None for the moment," he quietly amended.

"A threat looms on the horizon," Domen concluded, a smirk coming to his scarred face. Ondrej shrugged.

"I have come to see Predrag," the war chief stated. Domen's smirk faded away instantly.

"He is not here," the priest replied, slightly offended. "Perhaps I can guide you, however."

Ondrej paused for a long moment. He had never paid any attention to the Chosen, outside of their ability to heal or rain down fire on the battlefield, but Domen's tone illustrated something more to the priests of his tribe than sermons against the humans and half breeds of the mountains.

"Perhaps," Ondrej said slowly. He looked over Domen's face again. An eager light shone in his eyes, unsuccessfully hidden behind his impassive face. The war chief hesitated a long moment, gauging the mounting impatience.

"Well?" Domen prompted. Ondrej nodded.

"I came to ask the opinion of the Chosen," the war chief began. He paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Our chieftain, powerful though he is, has asked us to do many things that do not seem to be the will of the One Eye. He has created farms, which helped us survive the past winter, but which many say make us weak. Libor claims that we do not farm, that it is the unscarred that do so for us. Perhaps he is right, even if I cannot abide the thought of the unscarred in our camp for any reason. But now, he has asked the _bogalj_ to make weapons rather than find their good death."

Domen nodded sagaciously, but said nothing. Ondrej waited a moment longer, but still the priest kept quiet.

"Do you believe this is right?" the war chief finally asked, his own impatience getting the better of him.

"No, I do not," Domen answered simply. The straightforward answer made Ondrej pause.

"What of Predrag?" he finally asked. Domen snorted, his face darkening ever so slightly.

"His time has come and gone," he stated, dismissing the old priest. "What he thinks…" Domen paused a moment. "What he thinks is blasphemy."

"He thinks Libor is right?" Ondrej concluded. Once again the priest snorted derisively, baring his tusks faintly.

"What does it matter what one so ancient would think?" Domen asked in reply. The cleric's angry tone revealed a hatred that had been well hidden among the Chosen for so long. "Predrag is old, and his vision has become clouded with his age. That he has not yet been accepted into the One Eye's great feast halls is troubling indeed, Ondrej. What courage is there in hiding behind walls of warriors whose bravery eclipses his own? What fury is there in a delusional thought that we should do the work of the unscarred? It is blasphemy, and even the other Chosen know this."

"They… turn against Predrag?" Ondrej asked, surprised. For as long as he could remember, Predrag had appeared as the most favored of all the Chosen by the One Eye. Other tribes had feared the ancient priest. That his position had suddenly become so perilous…

"Once I studied at Predrag's feet," Domen began, interrupting Ondrej's thoughts. "Once, he taught the glory of the One Eye, the glory that could only be found in courage, rage, and strength. But now he grows frightened, frightened of entering the One Eye's feast halls. He grows delusional, thinking he can escape death by following a lunatic's ideas of behaving just as the unscarred do. He conspires with Libor in the darkest hours of the night, thinking he can hide from the One Eye's vigilant gaze." Domen paused, pointing with his spear to the icon of the One Eye behind him. "But nothing escapes the One Eye's gaze, for he is One Eye Who Never Sleeps!"

"But… what if they are right?" Ondrej asked, hesitant. The priest's eyes widened in shock for an instant, but he quickly regained control of his emotions.

"You carry the fury of the One Eye within you, Ondrej," Domen said. "Your strength and fury are what elevate you. You know what is right! You know that what they would force upon us is wrong, you can feel it in your warrior's heart! Would you think yourself glorious for standing watch over pitiful unscarred, or for planting crops like an unscarred yourself? Would you find glory in melting down iron and bronze to make weapons for others to go into battle?"

Ondrej remained silent, knowing all too well that he would never wish such a fate even upon his enemies.

"I did not think you would, war chief," Domen stated, a cold certainty to his voice. "Go now. Do what must be done, for the good of the Bloody Fist."


	7. Preparation

**VI**

"Borivoj."

The sound of his father's voice woke Jiri, even if the summons had not been for him. A cold breeze, faint but unmistakable from the chill to his nose and ears, swept into the tent from the partially open flap. Outside the sky remained dark, but inside the tent the faint glow of the fire's embers still clearly silhouetted several forms standing close to the bed. Nearest to the bed, his father leaned close in over Borivoj's form.

"Father?" Borivoj asked sleepily. Jiri rolled towards his younger brother, feigning sleep as he tried to spy on the odd summons.

"Get up, Borivoj," Libor instructed. "Do not wake your brothers."

Another of the forms moved up behind Libor. At first Jiri assumed it was his mother, Kaja, but the shadow's spear and hunched form quickly dispelled that idea. Carefully Jiri peeked past his father, seeing his mother and Neza both well behind the two forms over the bed.

"Father, what is happening?" Borivoj asked quietly. His voice was edged with fear, but he spoke quietly to obey his father's command. The hunched shadow moved forward faintly, allowing Jiri a look at the ancient, scarred face and empty eye socket of the Bloody Fist's high priest.

"You know Predrag," Libor said quietly, identifying the withered orc for the youngster. "Chosen by the One Eye to guide the Bloody Fist. He will be your teacher."

An audible gasp escaped from Kaja, masking any noise Jiri might have made at the simple statement.

"Rise, boy," Predrag said, his raspy voice cutting through Jiri's senses. "Bring your spear. You will need nothing more."

"Husband," Kaja hissed. Libor spared her little more than a cold glance over his shoulder, a clear warning for her to be silent. Next to Jiri, Bela stirred faintly, until he kicked his brother's leg in warning to be silent and still.

"I want to stay here," Borivoj protested, inching away from the ancient priest. Predrag smiled faintly at the child's reluctance.

"You have been chosen," the ancient orc explained. "Chosen to guide the Bloody Fist when I am gone. The One Eye has shown me this."

"But I want to stay here," Borivoj pleaded, turning in desperation to his mother. "Mama, let me stay here."

"You must go," Libor said, kneeling next to his young son. Jiri could barely believe the scene, from the simple surrender of the chieftain's son to the warm, reassuring words that came from Libor rather than angry demands. "It is your destiny, boy. Some day you will help your brother lead the Bloody Fist. You must be ready when that day comes."

Jiri could barely maintain his ruse as he heard his father speak. Would he be the next chieftain? Next to him, Borivoj sniffled, tears rolling down his face. Kaja took a step towards her son, but a harsh glare from the chieftain stopped her.

"You do not understand now," Libor said, turning back to Borivoj. "But some day you will. I do not wish to see you leave, but you will always be my blood. Remember that always, Borivoj. Now get up. Follow your destiny."

Hesitantly Borivoj pushed the blankets away, choking back tears as their father gave him to the old priest. Predrag took the boy by the hand as he stood.

"You will learn, in time," Predrag assured him. Borivoj's face was drenched in tears, a woman's act in the eyes of Jiri, but as Libor knelt in front of the child there was no sign of anger or embarrassment on his face.

"You will make me proud," the chieftain said quietly, wiping the tears away from Borivoj's eyes. "And I will visit you often." Libor stood, and turned to Predrag. "Take care of my son, priest."

"He will grow to great glory as one of the Chosen," Predrag stated. Without another word, or even a chance for Kaja to say goodbye to her son, the priest led Borivoj through the tent flap and into the darkness. For a long moment Jiri watched as Libor simply stood over the bed, his eyes shimmering with the faint beginnings of his own tears as he watched the night through the partially open flap.

"What is this?" Kaja demanded suddenly, her harsh whisper breaking the silence. Across the tent, on the edge of the embers' glow, Jiri could see the furs move where Tereza and Eliska slept. "What have you done?"

"What I have to do," Libor replied, his voice icily calm. The simple answer only seemed to incense Kaja further.

"Is Borivoj not the son of a chieftain?" she pressed. "Are my sons orphans to be cast off to the Chosen?"

"Borivoj will earn great glory as one of the Chosen," Libor said quietly. "One day, Jiri may be chieftain of this tribe. He will need his brother to guide him."

"Borivoj is the son of a chieftain!" Kaja exclaimed, barely keeping from shouting. "And a chieftain's sons are to be warriors!"

"A chieftain's sons can be anything!" Libor snapped, his rage rapidly coming to the surface. For a long moment the two parents fell silent, glancing to their children. Jiri feigned sleep, even rolling away from the two, but his act seemed halfhearted at best. Again, the reference to him as chieftain seized his imagination. However transparent their children's ruse was, however, Libor finally returned his attention to his first wife. "And a chieftain's wives do not question their husbands," he reminded her.

For a long moment, a tense silence held in the tent.

"Yes, Husband," Kaja finally relented, an obvious note of disgust in her voice. Jiri expected to hear a resounding slap as Libor disciplined his wife, but instead there was a simple rustle as the two and Neza returned to bed. Jiri turned his head faintly, but all he could see was his father settling back into bed between the two females.

Jiri turned away from his parents' bed, but before he could even think about what had happened he came face to face with Bela's concerned amber eyes.

"Jiri," the younger brother said.

"Go to sleep, Bela," Jiri instructed simply. Bela remained silent for a moment, but his eyes did not close.

"Will we be taken away, too?" he asked simply. Jiri remained silent, uncertain how to answer. He had never seen, or even heard of, anything remotely like what he had just witnessed. He had never even guessed that a young orc could be taken away in the night by the Chosen. Was that what was meant by the term Chosen?

And would he truly be chieftain?

"Jiri," Bela pressed, growing more anxious. Jiri shook the last thought from his mind, albeit with great difficulty.

"I don't know," he admitted with a shrug. It was only partially true; Jiri did not know what would happen to Bela or Jarek, but he knew that he would never be given away.

After all, he would be chieftain.

* * *

><p>"Ondrej."<p>

"Chieftain," Ondrej said, not bothering to turn from his inspection of the young orcs arrayed across the playing field of Bijelo Polje. Down a slight hill, two teams of a dozen young orcs each squared off in a game of conquering territory, marking the small stone cairns they took with crude flags or wrestling each other to the ground to take control of their opponents' territory. Libor made his way slowly up the rise where Ondrej stood, stopping next to him as he watched the prospective young warriors hone their skills in the chilly afternoon. Ondrej remained silent as he waited for the chieftain to begin the conversation, unwilling to begin one himself with the unsteady leader.

"Your son grows strong," Libor finally said, breaking the uneasy silence.

"He does well," the war chief agreed without emotion. "One more year until his Trial. I would have expected Jiri to be here as well."

"He is with Raduz," Libor explained. "He will have time to play tomorrow."

"Learning to fight is best done from those who are not crippled," Ondrej noted, shifting faintly. "And learning to fight alongside one's peers is as important as the finer points of the spear."

"And Jiri will learn both," Libor explained. The faintest defensive note edged into the chieftain's voice. "The spear today, the Contest tomorrow."

"I see," Ondrej said quietly. Again the pair lapsed into silence. Ondrej could feel the chieftain's uncertainty as they stood together, a sure sign of weakness that the war chief was slowly beginning to dislike from the once strong leader.

"I will be leaving for the winter," Libor finally said.

"Then you will lose your tribe," Ondrej said. Only a few months before the conversation would have stunned Ondrej into silence, but after all that had happened the chieftain's blunt statement did not seem nearly so shocking.

"You think me mad," Libor assumed. Ondrej nodded.

"How can I not?" the war chief asked. "You wish to leave as winter settles over the tribe you are supposed to lead. I have defended you on many occasions already from those who would see you destroyed for the good of the tribe, hoping that you would regain your senses. But this… I cannot help you any more, Libor Do you honestly think that you will be welcomed back, if you even survive the winter alone?"

"I would have my war chief rule in my stead while I am gone," Libor explained. Ondrej snorted derisively.

"And then make you chieftain again upon your return?" he concluded. "You are insane, Libor. No orc willingly surrenders the title of chieftain."

For a moment the two stood in silence.

"Look around you, Ondrej," Libor finally began again. "Look at our tribe. We are the greatest of all the orcs, and yet each year even we lose ground to the unscarred. If we fall, who will be left? Kazatimiru? At least he is an orc. The half breed? Is that what we wish to see? If we fall, Ondrej, so do all orcs. The humans and the goblins will kill us or bred us out of existence."

"Each one of us is worth ten unscarred in battle," Ondrej stated, his eyes locked on the young orcs below."

"And yet we give up more ground each year," Libor countered. Ondrej hesitated.

"And somehow, your leaving will strengthen us," the war chief scoffed, turning away. Libor grabbed him by the arm, turning him back.

"I will find _Krvavi Puet_," the chieftain said. Ondrej stared for a long moment, disbelieving.

"You are mad," he reiterated.

"I am not mad!" Libor countered, his anger and frustration rising. The chieftain paused, bringing his turbulent emotions under control. "Predrag has seen it! His vision will guide me, guide our tribe, to new glory!"

"Predrag," Ondrej repeated. "He is ancient, Libor. He was old when we were only in our Year of Trial. How much longer will we have to suffer his dementia?"

"Dementia?" Libor repeated. "He is the Chosen, Ondrej! He is favored by the One Eye above all others!"

"He is ancient and withered, Libor!" Ondrej retorted. "Look at him! He can barely lift the spear he carries! How much longer before his mind fails, if it has not already?"

"He is the One Eye's favored!" Libor pressed. "If not for his vision, we would have perished long ago, either to the winter or to the half breed!"

Ondrej paused a long moment, his eyes locked on the defensive chieftain. Finally, he nodded.

"He is the one," the war chief guessed. Libor paused, confused. "He is the one who has put these thoughts into your head," Ondrej continued. "The farms, the _bogalj_ laboring like the unscarred, and now this. He will destroy our tribe with his mad visions, Libor. Once, he may have been favored by the One Eye, but now he is only favored by insanity. He will destroy himself and anyone who listens to him, Libor. Stop now. Stop while there is still time!"

"Enough!" Libor snapped. The two orcs remained locked in cold glares. "If we do not change, Ondrej, we will be destroyed! Or are you too blind to see that?"

"Are you too blind to see the madness of this?" Ondrej countered. "Leaving your tribe? You will lose everything!"

Libor seemed ready to strike, his massive hands balled into fists, but the chieftain brought his rage under control.

"I would sacrifice all for the glory of my tribe," Libor stated evenly. "That is why I am the Bloody Fist."

"If you leave, you lose your tribe," Ondrej said again. "If you return, you may challenge, just like any other orc. But do not think to walk back into Bijelo Polje and reclaim all that you gave up."

"I took you as war chief over Stribog," Libor growled. "And this is how you repay me?"

"There are many others who would have seen me strike you down already," Ondrej pointed out. "They would have me challenge now, and destroy you for the good of the tribe."

"Miran, I assume," Libor reasoned.

"It does not matter," Ondrej stated. "Whether it is you or the priest, your mad ideas have turned the tribe against you. It is not just one or two orcs that would have me challenge." Ondrej paused, but his words seemed to have no effect on the chieftain. "Go," he said, his voice cold. "Look for your mythical spear. Take the old priest with you, even. Perhaps it would be better for you both to leave this tribe. And if you do return, you may challenge for leadership, just like any other orc."

Libor growled faintly, his tusks locked in a hateful snarl.

"Then enjoy your time as chieftain, Ondrej," he spat. "Call the gathering. I will tell the tribe."

* * *

><p>"Pay attention, boy! Do you think you'll have time to daydream as a true orc?"<p>

Jiri snarled as he regained his feet, trying to put aside his teacher's verbal jabs as he reset himself to spar once more. Crippled and barely able to move, Raduz nonetheless soundly thrashed the younger, healthier orc with every round they fought. Once again Jiri looked to the other orcs of his age, ones who would face their Year of Trial with the chieftain's son, playing the Contest on one of Bijelo Polje's many small fields.

"You will have time to play tomorrow, boy," Raduz pointed out, slapping the younger orc with the butt of his spear. "Pay attention to the foe at hand before you look to your next. Have I taught you nothing?"

"You have taught me how to stand still," Jiri retorted, his eyes on the rise above the field. There stood his father, the Bloody Fist himself, once more in heated conversation with the war chief of the tribe. His inattention and his remark cost him dearly; Raduz clubbed the chieftain's son with the shaft of his spear and swept the dazed orc's legs out from under him. Jiri landed painfully on his back, finding Raduz' spear once more at his throat.

"You mock my injuries, yet for some reason I best you every time," the mentor stated coldly. "Before you open your mouth, unscarred, you should understand the consequences of what you wish to say."

"I will best you," Jiri promised, pushing Raduz's spear aside and slowly regaining his feet. The teacher rested for a moment, glancing over his shoulder. Finally, he turned back to the young orc.

"You are concerned," he assumed. Jiri looked past him.

"I will play the Contest tomorrow, and win," he decided.

"That is not what I meant," Raduz pointed out. Jiri looked to the rise again, but Ondrej stood alone. For a long moment Jiri searched for his father, but the chieftain had disappeared.

"He gave Borivoj away," the youngster finally stated, turning back to his teacher. Raduz' thick eyebrows rose in surprise. "To the ancient one, Predrag."

"It explains your lack of concentration," Raduz stated. "Why did he do such a thing?"

"He said it was Borivoj's destiny," Jiri explained. He paused for a long moment. "He said I would be chieftain, and that Borivoj would guide me."

Raduz pondered the boy's words for a long moment. Jiri shifted uncomfortably; although the thought of becoming chieftain some day made him heady with pride, he knew the jealousy that would accompany making such a statement. Older warriors would challenge him ceaselessly to shame him for such a thing.

"Borivoj will become one of the Chosen," Raduz finally said, snapping the boy's attention back to the present. Jiri nodded. "Your father is a strange orc," the teacher remarked.

"He shames us," Jiri said. He stopped, considering his words. "At least, mother says he does."

"A female's opinion is not to be valued highly," Raduz noted, leaning on his spear as he considered the matter. Jiri thought he would add something more, but the _bogalj_ remained silent.

"But a chieftain's sons are to be warriors," the youngster said. Raduz smiled at the statement.

"And a _bogalj_ should search for a last battle to enter the Feast Halls of the One Eye whole again," the teacher stated. He shook his head. "I have had much time to think," Raduz said. "Your father has done many odd things, the farms most obvious among them. He has asked me to remain here, to teach your brother and others the spear."

Raduz hesitated a long moment, lost in thought.

"Will you?" Jiri finally asked. Raduz's eyes snapped up, surprised by the question.

"I… don't know," the _bogalj_ replied. "Is it right to remain like this, crippled, unable to fight, dependent on other orcs to even hunt for me?"

Jiri shrugged helplessly, unable to answer the question.

"When your father asked me to teach Bela, I could not bring myself to think such a way," Raduz continued. "But I have seen you grow, seen you become a true warrior. You are talented, and will one day be a great warrior. I can only hope that your time with me will reflect well during your Year of Trial."

"I would not dishonor you with my actions," Jiri stated. "I will be the greatest of the warriors to face their Trial in the spring. And if someone should ask where I learned to wield the spear, I will tell them that it was Raduz, the great warrior and slayer of ogres, that taught me."

Raduz paused for a moment, but finally his face lit with a warm smile.

"Slayer of ogres," the cripple repeated. "Not Raduz the _bogalj_?"

"If you were _bogalj_, you would not be able to best me so easily," Jiri said with a smile. Raduz could barely contain his elation at the statement, but finally he managed to force out a snarl to cover his broad grin.

"Enough of this, boy," the _bogalj_ snorted. "I won't be taken in by the compliments of an unscarred female. Fight me!"

Jiri raised his spear and growled in readiness, but he felt no true anger as his mentor tried unsuccessfully to hide the joy behind his tusks.

* * *

><p>"I have seen this before. He will use it to curry favor."<p>

"A well fed tribe is a complacent tribe," Javor agreed, looking over the preparations as he and Miran walked the perimeter of the feast. At midday, Libor had unexpectedly announced a feast to be held upon the great field where young orcs played the Contest, sending the tribe into a whirlwind of preparation and speculation alike. Rumors had swirled among the females as they roasted great spits of elk, their conversations dying away rapidly as the males passed them by or inspected their work. Among the warriors, little was different; Miran had been stopped by a half dozen warriors or more, ranging from young Stannes to the old, crippled Stribog, to discern the nature of the feast. "Still," the berserker said, considering his conversations throughout the day, "many assume he will apologize for his actions at the Autumn Feast."

"He owes a particular apology to Vratislav," Dobroslav grumbled, following a step or two behind the two warriors.

"An apology he would not be able to give if Vratislav were dead," Javor pointed out. Miran snorted faintly.

"No chieftain has ever apologized," the Single Tusk stated. "It would be weakness. I would not do such a thing as chieftain."

"Great and generous Miran," Javor said with a faint chuckle. Below them, on the Contest field, the females brought out the last of the long tables for the feast. Most of the food had already been prepared, and now the females were setting the tables for their proud warriors. Miran smiled at Javor's joke, but his mirth died away as he saw Ondrej stalking through the females.

"The war chief still broods," the Single Tusk noted. Javor's mood darkened as well with the statement.

"He will speak to no one," the berserker observed, watching Ondrej make his way among the females. "He has brooded all day, but will give no reason why."

"Do you think his anger comes from our chieftain's desire to apologize for the Autumn Feast?" Miran inquired, a tone of sarcasm in his voice. "Do you think he rages because Libor has finally come to his senses?"

"Perhaps it is Ondrej's mood that had forced Libor to see reason," Javor suggested, though his tone betrayed his lack of optimism. Another derisive snort escaped Miran's lips.

"Convince yourself before trying to convince me," the Single Tusk advised his ally. Javor scowled at the condescending remark.

"There is our chieftain," Dobroslav remarked, ending the conversation as he nodded to the far end of the field. As the last of the tables were dressed with elk and crude bronze goblets of wine, Libor himself appeared, his spear in hand as he made his way to the head table. With him came Zdeno, bearing his great axe easily on one shoulder as he eyed the food hungrily.

"A new war chief?" Javor questioned, noting Zdeno's presence with Libor. Miran's eyes narrowed.

"He would not do such a thing," the Single Tusk said quietly. "To throw a tribe into such chaos…"

"He has already thrown us into chaos," Dobroslav pointed out. Javor nodded in agreement.

"They have not seen eye to eye," the berserker observed. "Zdeno, as you have said, is Libor's orc."

"He is a fat, lazy fool," Dobroslav snarled.

"Yes, a fat, lazy fool that could defeat you," Miran stated. Dobroslav's lips curled into a snarl, but Javor stepped between the two.

"Fight each other later," the berserker stated sternly. "Fighting now will only cost the tribe. Let us find seats and eat."

Javor did not wait for the others before heading down through the Contest field. Miran turned to Dobroslav as the scout leader glared at him.

"I should remember my allies," the Single Tusk stated, as close to an apology as he was willing to come. Dobroslav hesitated slightly, but finally accepted the unspoken apology with a nod. Reconciled, the two started down through the Contest field after their friend. The younger warriors parted quickly for the leaders of the tribe, flashing smiles or quick greetings as they found their way to the seats afforded them by their rank. The greatest of the warriors would sit closest to Libor's table, falling back to the newest warriors, then the boys that awaited their Year of Trial, and finally to the females and the young. Behind them, the few _bogalj_ that remained took their positions beyond the tribe, listening quietly. As Miran made his way through the crowds, he noted that the conversations of the assembled orcs pointedly avoided the reason for the gathering.

"Here, Miran," Javor called out, waving the Single Tusk over. Just behind him, Ondrej was taking a seat among the first table of warriors, further proof that something was seriously amiss.

"Ondrej?" the Single Tusk asked, too shocked by the war chief's seat among the common warriors. Ondrej snarled faintly, an expression of barely contained rage.

"He will explain," Ondrej forced out between locked tusks. Miran looked back to the head table, where Vratislav of all orcs had joined Libor and Zdeno. The young warrior's appearance, so soon after he had challenged and been defeated by the Bloody Fist, immediately ended the conversations of the orcs as they turned their attention to their leader.

"Members of the Bloody fist," Libor began, his voice carrying across the thousand or more orcs gathered on the Contest field. What few murmurs had persisted died away with the chieftain's address. "My brothers and sisters. I offer this feast for you, to honor all that you have done. My great warriors, who have won so many victories. My females, who have borne proud, strong young orcs for the glory of the tribe. For the boys who will become true orcs in due time. And even to the _bogalj_, who have offered all that they were to the tribe. They have given up the feast halls of the One Eye to return their wisdom to the tribe."

"What does this mean?" Dobroslav asked quietly, listening to the odd opening.

"Silence," Miran hissed. His eyes were still locked on Libor; his only conclusion was that madness had truly taken hold of the once great chieftain.

"For ten years, I have led the Bloody Fist," Libor continued, looking over his tribe. "I have led you to many victories over that time. We have defeated the bastard half breed and won glorious battles against, humans, goblins, ogres, and even the trolls that haunt the snows to the south. I have brought to us all the glory that I can.

"But now, there is something more I must do," the chieftain continued. Miran glanced to Javor, but the berserker could only shrug in confusion. Next he looked to Ondrej, but the war chief's cold, furious eyes remained locked on Libor. "I have given all that I am to the Bloody Fist. Now I must give my fury and my strength to all orcs."

Libor paused for a long moment, but not a sound escaped the gathered orcs.

"I will leave the Bloody Fist," the chieftain announced. The bluntness of his statement stunned the orcs into quiet murmurs of shock. "If I do not do this, we will some day fall to the unscarred around us."

"He is mad," Dobroslav breathed out. Miran looked back to Ondrej, but the war chief had finally turned away with a snarl of rage on his face.

"He… leave?" the Single Tusk managed, too stunned by the revelation to find his fury.

"You give up the Bloody fist?" Javor called out, the first one to stand. His question led to a flurry of questions from the tribe, both to Libor and to each other.

"Enough!" Libor shouted, bringing the assembled orcs back to silence. "I do not give up the Bloody Fist!" the chieftain explained. "I leave to find greater glory for the Bloody Fist! I leave to find greater glory for all orcs!"

"We care nothing for all orcs!" one warrior exclaimed. "Glory to the Bloody Fist!"

"Glory to the Bloody Fist!" several others shouted.

"Enough!" Libor bellowed again. Once more the tribe died down to quiet rumblings. "I will unite all tribes under one banner!" the chieftain shouted. "All will follow the Bloody Fist!"

"Into madness?" Miran shouted in derision. A chorus of agreement rose up around him.

"I will find _Krvavi Puet_!" Libor yelled over the racket. The name of the mythical relic silenced the crowd instantly. Libor looked around for a long moment. "I will find the One Eye's spear. If I do, then all that I propose, all that will elevate us to the conquerors that we should be, will be done. I will unite the tribes, or I will die trying!"

Miran and Javor exchanged glances. Krvavi Puet was a legend, something many orcs did not even believe in past their formative years. What would happen if such a legendary weapon existed?

"I will leave, and when I come back it will be with _Krvavi Puet_," Libor reiterated, his harsh glare sweeping over the warriors. "While I am gone, Ondrej will lead the Bloody Fist. When I return, I will lead the Bloody Fist to undreamed of glory!"

Quiet murmurs swept through the crowd a second time. Libor, his face flushed with rage, practically dared the assembled feast to challenge him. After along moment, he nodded.

"I will return with the One Eye's very spear," he said. "Zdeno and Vratislav will accompany me. Until then, I leave you with Ondrej."

With that, Libor turned and stalked away from the head table. After a short hesitation, Zdeno and Vratislav followed their chieftain. Slowly, with the tribe still silent, Ondrej stood from his place and approached the head table.

"I am chieftain of the Bloody Fist," Ondrej declared, barely holding his fur in check. "I am the Bloody Fist. Who among you will challenge me?"

Miran glanced around the assembled tribe, but no one wished to challenge the slayer of Dainis. With no rival to the new chieftain, Miran stood, his goblet in hand.

"To the Bloody Fist!" he exclaimed, raising his drink above his head. For a long moment, the tribe remained silent.

When it finally did erupt, it was in cheers of joy for their new chieftain.


	8. Departure

** VII**

"This is insanity!"

"This is the will of the One Eye," Libor explained, pushing into his tent. Kaja stormed in behind him, her face lit with rage as she chased after her husband. Outside, the sounds of merriment carried on the wind from the Contest field; the tribe had taken well to their interim chieftain.

"First my son, and now this?" Kaja pressed, standing in the center of the large tent. Behind her, Neza hesitantly led the children inside, uncertain how to follow Kaja's furious lead. Libor turned back to the group, looking over his assembled family. "What has happened to you, Husband? Where is the chieftain who married me?"

Libor turned slowly back to Kaja, looking over his assembled family. Neza tried to corral the youngest of his children, but Jarek and Eliska, oblivious to the tension in the household, scurried away easily while the younger wife watched the confrontation unfold. Bela and Tereza remained just inside the tent, cautiously holding their ground behind Neza, but Jiri had moved to one side. The youth's eyes followed every word as Kaja pressed the issue.

"Neza," Libor finally said, his voice low and even.

"Yes, Husband?" Neza inquired timidly.

"Take the children outside," the chieftain instructed. Neza nodded quickly, almost thankfully, and hastily ushered the youngest outside. Bela hesitated only the briefest instant before ducking out of the tent. Jiri moved far more slowly, stopping just inside the flap.

"Do as you were told, Jiri," Kaja hissed over her shoulder. Jiri paused again, looking to his father, until Libor dismissed him with a nod. Kaja glanced behind her, assuring that the others had left before continuing.

"Have you gone insane?" she demanded, turning her full rage on the chieftain. "How could you do this to us? You would abandon us in winter!"

"I do not answer the questions of a female," Libor retorted, his anger growing quickly with Kaja's insubordinate attitude. The answer only enraged his wife further.

"You are mad!" she concluded angrily. "You are the chieftain of the strongest tribe in the mountains! You defeated the half breed and claimed the entire Cold Spear tribe! Oleksandr and Kazatimiru fear you! You have everything!"

"I have much," Libor conceded. "Including a wife who does not know her place."

"And you know yours?" Kaja countered, incredulous. "What mad chieftain leaves his tribe and his family as winter approaches? Do you really think Ondrej will just let you be chieftain again if you return from this… this insanity?"

"It is not insanity," Libor growled, "and my dealings with my war chief are my concern, not yours."  
>"You would leave us in winter!" Kaja exclaimed. "For what? Some… some spear that does not exist, because some ancient, withered mystic tells you so?"<p>

"I leave for my tribe," Libor countered. "For the glory of the Bloody Fist, and for all orcs. You, a mere female, would not understand this."

"No one understands your insanity!" Kaja exploded. Libor's stony demeanor finally began to crack as his lips curled into a snarl, but the female continued unabated. "The farms! The _bogalj_! This… this mad quest in the middle of winter for a myth! You will ruin me for that insane, withered old mystic's-"

Kaja's rant ended abruptly with the resounding slap of Libor's open palm against her face. The female spun, catching her balance only a heartbeat before the chieftain was upon her again, his massive backhand hurling her backwards and to the ground. Kaja scrambled quickly to her back, trying to get away from the furious chieftain, but Libor's heavy boot crashed down onto her chest, bruising ribs as he drove her back to the ground.

"You would dare question me?" Libor snarled, leaning all of his weight down on his wife. Kaja gasped as she struggled to breathe. "This tribe does not exist for your benefit," the chieftain told her, grinding her into the ground. "I did not marry you to make your life the dream of an unscarred female. Do you presume to have dominion over me, wife?"

"Husband, I… only want… what's best… for… for us!" Kaja wheezed out, feebly struggling against his weight. Libor simply leaned down harder.

"For many years I took you as my only wife," the chieftain stated, his voice a low, angry growl. "I did not do this because of you. I did this because I chose to focus on my people, my tribe. I know how you treat Neza, and I know why. Do not fool yourself into thinking that you are above your station, female."

Kaja tried to speak, but the full brunt of Libor's weight did not allow any air into her chest. Desperately she clawed at her husband's heavy boot, her mouth opening spasmodically as she tried to suck any air into her lungs. Libor paused for a long moment, his rage at such open disobedience even from his wife nearly overtaking him, but before she could black out he stepped off of her. Kaja stumbled to her hands and knees, gasping for air, until the chieftain pushed himself forward into a vicious upward kick that sent the female flying across the room. Kaja remained where she landed, curled into a ball and sobbing, as Libor stalked across the tent to her.

"You presume to have authority over a male," the chieftain observed, his tone icy. "Females have been killed for such affronts."

"I… I am sorry, Husband," Kaja bawled, crawling to her knees and grabbing hold of Libor's leg. "Please, Husband, forgive me!"

Libor snarled faintly, and kicked the weeping female from his ankle. Kaja looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I will leave to find _Krvavi Puet_," the chieftain stated. Kaja nodded through her tears. "While I am gone, you will be responsible for my family. Including Neza. If anything should happen to them before I return, I will crucify you myself. Do you understand me, female?"

"I… understand," Kaja agreed, nodding quickly. Libor paused a moment later, until his features softened faintly.

"Then collect my family," the chieftain stated. "I will see them one more time before I leave."

* * *

><p>The feast had died away hours earlier. The Contest Field, for so long filled with raucous warriors feasting beneath the torches and great cooking fires, was now silent and dark, only a few piles of embers remaining in odd patches.<p>

Libor stood silently beyond his tent, watching over the stillness that now dominated Bijelo Polje. His family had gone to sleep long ago, before the howls of the Bloody Fist had died away. Kaja, chastened and returned to her place, had been forbidden from his bed, but the chieftain was hardly in the mood for company of any sort. Filled though he was with the purpose of finding _Krvavi Puet_ and uniting all of the orcs of the Khairathi Mountains under his banner, the cheers of his tribe for Ondrej, the new chieftain, had been less than inspiring. Only a few seemed to believe that he would accomplish his task; indeed, many seemed to think him insane for even attempting to find what they considered a legend, nothing more. For the first time, a hint of doubt crept into the chieftain's heart.

Was he doing the right thing?

Libor's thoughts were interrupted by the faint rustling of the tent flap behind him. The chieftain glanced back over his shoulder. In the light of the three quarter moon he could see Neza carefully making her way across the stony ground, wrapped only in a light blanket.

"Husband?" she asked quietly, standing a few feet away. Libor looked back to the camp.

"Return to bed, Neza," the chieftain instructed. For a long moment the female remained quiet and still.

"Husband, I…" Neza began. She trailed off into silence, uncertain how to proceed.

"You wish to challenge my decisions as well?" Libor inquired, turning to his young wife. A stern note crept into his voice, a clear indication of his anger.

"No, Husband," Neza replied hastily. "But… I do not understand. I am only a female. Why must you go?"

Libor regarded the young female for a moment. She asked the same questions as Kaja, but she lacked the accusation and desperation present in the older wife. Slowly Libor took a step toward her.

"I do this for the Bloody Fist," he explained. "I do this for all orcs, so that our descendants will take their place as conquerors, feared above even the flat heads of Trzebin. I must unite the tribes, or we will all die."

"And for this, you must leave us," Neza concluded, her eyes dropping to the ground. Libor nodded.

"I must find _Krvavi Puet_," he stated.

"And… if you do not return?" Neza asked.

"Then I will join the One Eye in his mighty feast halls," Libor answered. He paused. "And there I will learn if I was right or wrong."

"I… believe you are right," Neza said, looking back to her husband. Tears glistened on her cheeks in the moonlight. "But I am afraid."

"You will not have to fear Kaja," the chieftain assured her. Neza smiled faintly.

"I am not afraid of… of her," the female explained, holding back any insult she may have had for the older wife. "But… but I do not wish to become a crone before I have a son."

"You will not have to fear for that," Libor said. "You are an ideal mate, and many orcs would have you."

"Would they?" Neza asked. She looked away. "You honored my father by taking me as your wife. Few chieftains would grant such an honor to a defeated rival, especially one that surrendered. But that is what I am. I am the daughter of a defeated chieftain. My betrothed was killed by winter wolves, and now many say my husband has gone mad. They will see me as cursed. Who would have me?"

"You place your own interests over that of the tribe," Libor said, his anger growing once more. Neza shook her head quickly, sensing his ire.

"No," the young female said, taking his hand in hers. "You are like no orc I have ever met, ever even heard of. I do not know if you are right or wrong. I do not understand why you must leave us, especially when our tribe, your tribe, prospers above all others. But… I know you must go. I do not want you to, but I know that you must. I fear, yes. I wish you would stay, and turn from this path that so many say you should not travel. But if you say you must, if you say that _Krvavi Puet_ is the key to undreamed of glory, then… then I accept what you must do. And I will pray to the One Eye every day that he returns you to us, and that you will lead the Bloody Fist to the glory that you foresee."

Libor regarded Neza for a long moment. She trembled, an obvious sign of her fear both of him and of the journey he would undertake. There was a strength in her, however, a strength that shone through in her words. Unlike Kaja, she was willing to follow her husband even though the path would not be easy.

"You will have nothing to fear," Libor said. "I leave to find _Krvavi Puet_, but I will return to my family."

Neza smiled and stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Libor pulled her closer, letting her lean her head on his chest for a long moment before she pulled back slightly.

"I have spoken to Jitka, the Crone," she said quietly. "She has told me that I will bear a single child, a son, if you take me tonight. Before you leave, I only ask that you give me that son."

"There is no greater honor I can give my most loyal wife," Libor said, a warm smile coming to his face.

* * *

><p>His meager tent, his few possessions, would likely be gone by the time he returned. Winter would bring the scavenging that inevitably snapped up what belongings were left by those who had fallen.<p>

Vratislav looked back over the tiny home he had taken since his Year of Trial. No female and no children slept inside, waiting for him to return. No great trophies hung above the flaps of his tent. None of the signs of a great warrior were present in his home. None, save the spear he now carried in his hands.

That would change soon.

Vratislav turned from his tent, situated on one of the lowest points of Bijelo Polje, and looked up to the rises above him. The greatest warriors of the Bloody Fist made their homes above all others, keeping their possessions cleaner and drier during the spring rains. They had wives, gold, vast amounts of food, furs, and great weapons blessed by the One Eye himself. They lived in luxury, never wanting, as was right. They were powerful, strong, full of rage.

It was where he would soon be.

Vratislav shouldered his spear and took up his small pack, his thick black cloak pulled about him to ward off the predawn chill. Silently he picked his way among the tents of his friends, young warriors only a year or two from their Year of Trial, careful not to wake them. Some few of them had already taken wives; one or two had even produced a son. All of them slept heavily after a night of raucous revelry. Vratislav would have been among them, if he had not had to prepare for what would become his hour of glory. Soon he would meet Libor and Zdeno, and the three of them would set out to find the holiest relic of all the One Eye's legends.

Soon. After he had resolved one last issue.

Miran's tent, large and richly decorated with furs and skulls, sat atop one of the highest plateaus inside Bijelo Polje's palisade. After a night that had seen the Single Tusk's plans of ousting Libor succeed, Miran was bound to be near impossible to wake from a haze of mead and time with his wives. It would make his silent approach that much less noticeable, and as he carefully pulled up one side of the tent he could hear the Single Tusk snoring loudly.

His entrance was well planned. The Single Tusk's daughters lay asleep before him, Ksenija closest to him. A stroke of luck that no doubt proved the One Eye's favor, Vratislav thought with a smile. Carefully the young warrior pushed his spear into the tent, poking the young female with the haft until she stirred.

"Who's there?" Ksenija mumbled, barely picking her head up from the bed.

"Dress," Vratislav directed. "Meet me outside."

Vratislav did not wait for her answer, ducking back outside the tent before he could be discovered by Miran or the rest of his family. The young warrior paced back and forth nervously before the tent, stealing constant glances around him to see if anyone else lurked in the early morning gray. Finally, the tent flap pushed aside and Ksenija, dressed in a simple frock and covered by a thick cloak, came outside.

"Vratislav," she said, recognizing him now that she was awake."

"I would have you," Vratislav said. Ksenija paused for a moment.

"I could not stop you," she said.

"I would have you for my wife," Vratislav continued. Ksenija smiled faintly.

"You would have to ask the Single Tusk for his blessing," the young woman explained, "and he has not spoken favorably of you recently."

"What has he said?" Vratislav asked.

"That you have gone insane, like the orc you follow," Ksenija answered. "That you were foolish to challenge the chieftain, and now your honor will destroy you."

"My honor will be my greatest glory," Vratislav said. He paused for a moment. "He has told you this?"

"He has told Dobroslav and Javor this," Ksenija replied. "As well as anyone else that would listen. You are without friends, Vratislav. No dowry could buy me from my father now."

"And what do you say to this?" Vratislav asked. Ksenija paused. Vratislav knew he was not the first orc to appeal to a female when chances of marriage were in doubt; a desperate young warrior was apt to try many things to gain his first wife. Ksenija, for her part, seemed to recognize the ploy.

"What I say to this does not matter," she answered. She paused, looking back to her tent, toying with the belt of her frock. Vratislav waited with her, unwilling to let her go. Finally, the young female turned back to the warrior. "I am untouched," she said, carefully removing the cloth belt from her waist. She turned it over in her hands, examining it for a moment. "If I were to be bound and taken," she began, "it is possible that I would be forced to marry the one that took me."

"Many fathers would be pressed to do such a thing," Vratislav agreed, taking a step towards her. Ksenija dropped the belt between them. Vratislav scooped it up quickly.

He was on her in a heartbeat. She turned back to her tent, ready to leave the warrior outside, but Vratislav caught her by her hair and yanked her back outside. She stifled a cry as he bound her hands behind her, then roughly pushed her to the ground.

She could have screamed, alerting the whole camp to his actions. So close to Miran's tent, he would likely have been killed before he could even remove his pants.

But the One Eye, and Ksenija, favored him that night.

* * *

><p>"Father."<p>

"It is early," Libor said quietly, not looking over his shoulder as he packed what few belongings he would take. "Go back to bed, Jiri."

"You are leaving?" Jiri asked, quietly getting out of bed. The morning chill made the young orc shiver involuntarily, but he quickly forced such a show of weakness away. Libor nodded, a barely perceptible motion in the dim light of the fire's dying embers. Jiri paused of for a moment before continuing. "Then I will come with you."

"You are not yet a warrior," Libor pointed out. "This is not your destiny."

"Raduz has taught me well," Jiri declared. "I can fight as well as any orc."

"And when you have passed your Year of Trial, all orcs will know that," Libor agreed. "But for now, you are still a boy, and unfit for this journey."

Jiri hesitated, watching his father for a long moment.

"You do things as no other orc would do them, and yet I must hold to the traditions you try to break," the young orc concluded. Libor stopped packing, slowly turning back to his son. "You would give Borivoj away to Predrag, even though he is younger than me and the son of a chieftain, but I must hold to the very traditions you ignore?"

Libor growled faintly at his son. Jiri backed away a step, but the expected blow never fell on him.

"Remember your place," his father snarled, taking a step toward him. Jiri swallowed hard, holding his place. To show weakness now would only prove the chieftain correct.

"Tell me why," Jiri said. Libor's face darkened with rage, but once again the chieftain held his fists in check.

"You are right," Libor stated. "Three are traditions that I would change. It is the only way that our tribe, our race, will survive against the flat heads and the unscarred. But we are warriors, and we must always remember that. It is our strength, our fury, that places us above the unscarred. You will not abandon your Year of Trial, for it is the very core of what will make you a warrior."

"And what of Borivoj?" Jiri asked. "Will he undergo his Year of Trial?"

"You will not concern yourself with Borivoj!" Libor snapped, though he kept his voice low. The chieftain calmed himself before continuing. "Borivoj has been chosen by the One Eye himself. He will do what he must to see the full glory of our tribe and our people. And so will you, beginning with your Year of Trial."

The tent fell into silence for a long moment. Satisfied that his explanation had quieted the boy, Libor returned to his pack, finishing gathering his belongings. If either of the chieftain's wives heard the commotion, they chose to ignore it, lying silent and still in his father's bed. Jiri watched his father for a long moment, trying to phrase his next question delicately.

"Will I be chieftain?" he asked, far more bluntly than he had intended. Libor turned back to his son with a scowl.

"You will be nothing if you do not face your Year of Trial," the chieftain replied. Jiri looked down.

"I will endure much if I am to remain here," Jiri pointed out. "Many think you mad. Those that enter their Year of Trial with me will not let me forget that."

"Then you will grow stronger," Libor stated. "Do not show fear, for it is a sure sign of weakness."

"I do not fear them," Jiri stated. "I can best any one of them with spear, weight, or fist. It is why my Year of Trial should be with you, finding Krvavi Puet."

Libor chuckled faintly.

"Do not let thoughts of becoming chieftain blind you to your youth," the chieftain reminded him. "You will pass your Year of Trial like all other young orcs. Then, and only then, will you be allowed to join a hunt such as this."

Jiri nodded slowly.

"Then return with _Krvavi Puet_, and see me as a warrior," the boy said. "And then I will join you in glorious battle."

Libor's stern scowl faded away, replaced with a proud smile as he looked at his son.

"Strength and fury," the chieftain said, clasping his son's arm.

"Strength and fury," Jiri answered. Libor took his son into a tight embrace for a moment, then pushed the boy back a step.

"Look after your family," Libor instructed. "Face your Year of Trial with courage and strength. And then, next year, together we will show the unscarred what it is to fear."

* * *

><p>"You always woke early."<p>

"You always woke late," Libor said, smiling faintly as Zdeno joined him. The morning sky was lightening quickly now; in less than an hour the sun would rise, casting its radiance down upon the sleeping orcs of the Bloody Fist. Libor looked from his friend to the tents scattered among the rocks and rises of the Ondava's banks, wondering for the first time if he would be able to return to the tribe he had led for almost a full decade. Zdeno glanced back over his shoulder as he rested his axe on the ground.

"Having your doubts?" the berserker inquired. Libor shook his head.

"The One Eye has shown me this path," the chieftain said, steeling his will. "I will travel it to whatever end it brings."

"I had my doubts," Zdeno said. "Pavla was very… enticing this morning."

Libor grinned at his friend's joke.

"One more child before we leave?" he asked. Zdeno chuckled slightly.

"She will be a crone soon enough, but she may have one left," the burly warrior replied with a smile of his own. Libor chuckled at the remark, until Zdeno glanced over his shoulder again. "And what of the boy?"

"Vratislav will join us," Libor said. Almost as if he had heard the statement, the young warrior appeared from the early morning mist and the tents, his face flushed and his clothes muddied faintly.

"It appears the boy has sown his seed as well," Zdeno guessed, seeing the young warrior's ruffled appearance. "I suppose only you slept through the night, my chieftain? Or did your wives favor you for one last night?"

Libor scowled at the smirking berserker, then turned to greet the final member of their war party.

"I am ready," Vratislav said. "I will have nothing, but when I return my glory will bring all I need."

"I see you favor the spear now," Libor noted, seeing the very weapon that he had brought to the feast hall so many days earlier.

"It is called Scorn," Vratislav said, holding the weapon out. "Out of your scorn for me was I reborn, ready to serve the will of the Bloody Fist and the One Eye. Predrag himself has blessed my weapon."

"Then we certainly travel with the One Eye's favor," Libor said, nodding in approval. He eyed up his two companions for a moment. "There is nothing else you need to do before we leave?"

"Nothing," Vratislav answered, a faint smile coming to his face. Zdeno noticed the grin and smirked himself.

"And who was she?" the berserker inquired. Vratislav could not force down his exuberance.

"Ksenija," he answered. "The Single Tusk's daughter."

Zdeno's eyes went wide for a moment, before he burst out into a fit of laughter.

"The Single Tusk's daughter!" he echoed. Zdeno forced down his laughter, wiping a tear from his eye. "You will need more than the One Eye's favor to return to this tribe, whelp!"

"When I return, he will have no choice but to give her to me," Vratislav said, some of his elation fading with the older berserker's remarks. "And we will return with the One Eye's greatest relic."

"That we will," Libor confirmed. "Let's go, before the tribe wakes."

"Where are we going?" Zdeno asked, shouldering his axe and following his chieftain through the gates.

"The elves were the last to hold _Krvavi Puet_," Libor said, striking out to the northeast. "So that is where we will begin our search."


	9. Wilderness

** VIII**

The terrain was anything but easy. The sharp slopes of the valley were punctuated by boulders and rocky outcroppings, its heavy expanse shrouded in laurel and hemlock. Above, at the edges of the ravine, large oaks, their dead leaves still clinging to the branches, were overshadowed by pines reaching into the slowly brightening sky, while below a small torrent of water pushed its way through the rocky creek bed that made up the base of the tiny valley.

The narrow confines made the sounds of his pursuit echo through the valley, each snapping twig and loosened stone amplified in its sound as he pushed his way through the thickets and the thick branches of the hemlocks. Each time he paused, he could still hear the rustling of vegetation ahead of him, evidence that his quarry had not gotten away yet.

"Gruumsh's eye!" Vratislav cursed, taking up his spear and pushing ahead once more. The racket of his movement was of no concern to him; indeed, he purposely broke branches and rustled the laurel as he moved, forcing the deer ahead of him even further. He had done this many times before; the youngest orcs involved in a hunt were given the unenviable position of flushing the game to the older hunters, a vital but thankless task devoid of any glory at all. His position was made even more difficult because he was the sole orc flushing the game; only the confines of the ravine, picked by Libor ostensibly for this very reason, kept the deer ahead of him from running in every direction and escaping the closing trap. Vratislav had not even seen the deer; the only way he could tell that he was still pursuing them was the constant rustle of the hemlock and laurel ahead of him. Four times he had flushed game for Libor and Zdeno to fell; four times the deer had escaped around the sides of the lone orc flushing them. This time, the ravine had to keep them contained. Another night of going to sleep hungry would likely drive the orcs mad.

"It will drive me mad, at the least," Vratislav grumbled under his breath. Libor and Zdeno ate first; it was their right as older orcs, more glorious warriors, and better hunters. It made no difference that he was only one orc trying to hold the deer ahead. If the hunt was unsuccessful, his rations were forfeit to the stronger. To accentuate his point, and to keep the deer ahead of him, the young orc snatched up a large stone and hurled it ahead of him, up the ravine, before continuing his pursuit.

A sudden cry went up ahead of the orc, familiar enough as Zdeno's voice. The cry made Vratislav hurry, the thought of feasting on a fresh kill renewing his energy. He raced down into the creek itself, rushing forward until the tiny stream widened into a shallow, rocky brook that rose up to his knees as he followed his prey. The brook widened to the point that a tiny, rocky island, covered in a stand of white birch, split the waterway. Just before the creek widened at the island, Libor and Zdeno had already broken cover, the chieftain cocking his arm back to hurl a second javelin at their prey.

Vratislav cried out in victory as well as he saw their quarry. Two does were springing away down the river, their white tails bobbing as they ran, but the third, a large buck with a wide spread of antlers, had turned erratically into the birch on the island. One javelin was still in its side, and its neck bled from a second wound where another shaft had likely been torn out of the flesh. Libor rushed into the river, the water coming up to his thighs, before he loosed his javelin, striking the stag in its hind leg.

"Don't let him go!" Vratislav shouted, grabbing for one of his own javelins as he closed in on the wounded deer. Zdeno hurled himself forward at his prey with a large knife in his hand, pulling the injured beast down by its antlers and lunging for the throat with his blade. Vratislav hurried, hoping against hope for the killing blow, but Libor was far too close to outrun. With Zdeno already holding the animal down, Libor's spear struck true, piercing its heart and stopping its struggles almost instantly.

"We eat well tonight!" Zdeno declared, standing and wiping the water from his face. "Well done, boy!"

"Finally," Vratislav said. Then he turned to the warrior. "Next time, you flush the game, and I'll bring it down."

"When you earn the right, whelp," Zdeno growled. Vratislav snarled faintly, but remembered his place and lowered his head.

"Be proud of what you've done," Libor said, quickly coming between the two. "You are young, Vratislav. Soon it will be your turn to lead the hunt."

"I apologize," Vratislav said quietly. "It is frustrating to work alone, that is all."

"I know," Libor said. "That is why we will hunt in ravines, to give you the aid of the land."

Vratislav nodded, still not quite pleased with the situation.

"Now butcher the animal," Zdeno ordered, tossing his knife to the younger orc. Vratislav batted the blade aside, his fury growing, before Libor stopped him.

"Remember your place," the chieftain ordered, growing stern himself. "You are youngest. You have the least glory, the least trophies, and the fewest wives. You know our ways."

Vratislav growled for a moment, baring his tusks, but finally backed down.

"I know our ways," the younger orc conceded. He looked past Libor to Zdeno. "But I am still a warrior of the tribe."

"Yes, you are," Zdeno agreed. "Now do your job as a young warrior."

Vratislav growled again, but turned and angrily addressed the work at hand. Wishing that it was Zdeno's neck under his blade, the warrior drew his knife and slit the deer's throat, letting the blood wash out into the creek. Next he wrestled the deer up against one of the birches, but found himself helped in his endeavor by Libor himself. As the chieftain and the young warrior worked together to tie the deer over a low branch, the chieftain nodded to him.

"You are a warrior of the tribe," he agreed. "And you will have plenty to occupy you in days to come as our youngest warrior."

"Thank you," Vratislav said, grinning in appreciation of the chieftain's aid. As the two fought to bring the deer up, Zdeno grumbled under his breath, finally moving to help the others.

"We may as well all do the work of women," the berserker muttered. "After all, we are all warriors of the tribe."

* * *

><p>"How much farther will we have to travel?"<p>

"As long as we must," Libor answered absently, chewing on one of the ribs he had taken from their cooking fire. Zdeno snorted faintly in amusement, but said nothing as he sliced another chunk of meat from the roasting deer and began to devour it.

"I mean, how much longer until we find the elves?" Vratislav clarified, leaning back slightly from their meager circle of light. The younger orc wiped his hands on his pants before taking a cut of the deer for himself. Libor thought for a moment, considering the answer.

"They are to the north, along the river," the chieftain said. "I do not think we will be more than a few days away."

"Good," Zdeno said, his voice muffled by a large piece of venison. "Then we can kill them and get the spear back."

"And what if they don't have the spear?" Libor asked. Zdeno stopped chewing, considering the possibility.

"Then… why are we going to the elves?" the berserker asked. Libor turned to him.

"They were the last ones to have _Krvavi Puet_," the chieftain explained. "It does not mean that they still have it."

Zdeno paused for a long moment before spitting out a chunk of bone on the ground.

"And I thought this would be a simple raid," the berserker grumbled.

"So we take a prisoner and beat the information from him," Vratislav assumed. "And then we will know where the spear is."

"I do not think just any elf will know the location of _Krvavi Puet_," Libor said, examining the meat left on his rib. He took a bite as Zdeno and Vratislav looked to each other uneasily.

"Then… what are we to do?" the younger warrior finally asked.

"We parley," Libor said. He examined the rib in his hands one more time before tossing it into the fire. Again Zdeno and Vratislav exchanged apprehensive glances.

"And the elves will just help us?" Zdeno finally asked skeptically.

"No elf would help strengthen the orcs," Vratislav added. "They will kill us before they aid us in any way."

"We will parley," Libor reiterated. "The elves are cowardly, hiding in trees and shooting with bows, but they will not attack until we do."

"They will descend on us in waves and shoot at us until we bristle with their arrows!" Zdeno corrected. "We must have a better plan than this, Libor!"

"We will parley," Libor stated a third time. His amber eyes, stern and commanding, silenced Zdeno before he could voice any further opposition. "We will find the elves and show them that we come in peace."

Zdeno paused for a long moment, his eyes locked onto his leader as he mulled the plan over in his mind. Finally he stood, throwing aside his unfinished meal as he strode off into the darkness beyond the fire's light.

"Just walk into their territory and speak to them," the berserker said to the trees and he disappeared from view. "Of course. Why not?"

As Zdeno vanished, Vratislav turned back to Libor as the chieftain removed another hunk of meat from the roasting carcass.

"Do you think they will let us live long enough to parley?" the young warrior asked. The idea of speaking to, rather than attacking, the elves was simply something he had never considered since their departure from Bijelo Polje. Libor shrugged.

"I know that killing them will bring us no closer to _Krvavi Puet_," the chieftain explained, carefully slicing the meat in his hands to neat ribbons. "We can slaughter every elf in their forest and come no closer to finding it. We must discover what they know, and doing so will not be accomplished through combat."

"Zdeno does not agree with you," Vratislav pointed out, looking to the darkness. The berserker was still grumbling under his breath as he stomped through the underbrush. Libor smirked faintly.

"Zdeno is dramatic," the chieftain said. "He will be back before long."

Vratislav nodded hesitantly, taking a final cut of the roasting deer for himself as he watched the darkness. Zdeno, still hidden in the night, could nonetheless be heard grumbling curses and snapping the underbrush under his bulk. After a moment Vratislav looked back to the chieftain.

"Do you think they will help us?" the young warrior inquired.

"I do not know," Libor answered with a shrug. "But fighting with them will gain us nothing."

Vratislav hesitated for a long moment, considering the words. All orcs knew instinctively that any problem could be solved through combat. It was the very basis of their society.

But then again, elves were not orcs.

* * *

><p>"How far have we traveled?"<p>

"We are far north of the Bloody Fist's territory," Libor answered, looking up at the mountains to the northwest. A week of travel had brought the trio through heavy forest; taking time to forage and hunt had cost them dearly in time, slowing their progress with trial and error. Hunting in the future would be easier; with only three orcs, hunting was slow, time consuming, and, as they had discovered, required the use of the terrain to herd the deer effectively into the hunters' trap. Time, however, was something that they did not have in plentiful supply; even now the weather grew colder at night, forcing the orcs to huddle close together against the brutal winds of the coming winter.

"We have crossed into Flayed Skull territory," Zdeno assumed, taking stock of the terrain. "If they find us, they will wish the glory of killing the chieftain of the Bloody Fist."

"They will not stop us," Libor stated, shouldering his heavy spear once more as he led the way down a rocky slope. At the bottom, a tiny creek, its edges already covered by fragile patches of ice, wound through the rocks.

"I didn't say we would," Zdeno agreed, a trace of amusement in his voice. "But the time it will take us to kill all the warriors of their tribe will detract from our time with the elves."

"Perhaps we should have avoided their lands altogether," Vratislav offered, hoping he did not sound at all frightened of the upstart Flayed Skull. "Battle will cost us time we do not have."

"As would detours," Libor explained, slowing for a moment as he studied a small, rocky rise ahead of them. "We will not provoke them, but we will not back down from them."

"At least there will be some glory to be had," Zdeno chuckled, shouldering his axe as he took the lead from the chieftain. Libor started up behind him. For a moment Vratislav simply rested on his spear, taking the moment to recover from the long march. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, looking back over the long road they had already traveled.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention.

"Chieftain!" the young warrior hissed, crouching slightly and readying his spear. Behind them, almost a hundred yards through the thinning cover of the trees and laurels, other orcs made their way across the trail Libor had followed. There were no less than six, the first in line carrying a long, curved bow that could only be a trophy from a battle against elves. They were not on guard, bunched up and talking just loud enough to be heard, but any sudden movement could easily grab the small party's notice. Behind him, Zdeno slid back down the slope, painfully loud to Vratislav on the damp fallen leaves.

"We're not alone," the berserker noted, a faintly enthusiastic tone to his voice. "I did not think Kazatimiru's warriors were so brave to travel in such a small group."

"We are not here to attack them," Libor admonished him, watching the group from Vratislav's right. "We do not need-"

The chieftain fell silent as the bow wielding orc stopped suddenly, his eyes fixed on the ground.  
>"What is it now, Suljo?" one of the orcs demanded behind the bow wielder.<p>

"He's found the entire Bloody Fist," another of the orcs sniped, leaning on his spear. Vratislav crouched down lower, carefully taking cover behind a clump of bare shrubs. The bow wielder said something that Vratislav could not hear, but he could assume that the orc had somehow spotted their tracks in the damp earth.

"They've discovered us," Zdeno whispered, eager for battle.

"They have not yet," Libor countered, taking cover himself. Zdeno dropped slightly lower, but by the time he reluctantly glanced around him for a place to hide, the bow wielder had already turned in their direction.

"There!" the archer exclaimed. The other five turned as their comrade pointed, easily seeing Zdeno.

"Now they have seen us!" Zdeno snarled, standing and raising his axe.

"Kill him!" one of the orcs exclaimed, lowering his spear and charging. With a roar of battle lust, four of his companions joined him, crashing through the brush after their apparent lone target. Behind them, the archer drew an arrow and fired, catching Zdeno in the shoulder just as the massive berserker roared his own war cry and charged forward.

"Vratislav! The archer!" Libor commanded. Vratislav's eyes went wide in rage, but before he could protest his mission the chieftain bellowed in rage and stormed out of his concealment, bearing down on the five charging enemies even as the archer drew and fired a second time.

Vratislav hurried through the underbrush, cursing his status as the least among the orcs and having to deal with the cowardly threat of an archer. He was certain that such a fore would throw his bow down and flee as soon as he saw the enemy upon him, refusing to fight in glorious hand to hand combat. His arrows, however, struck true, two sticking in Zdeno and another ripping a jagged line of blood across Libor's face as the pair met the charge of the other orcs.

Vratislav broke cover and howled in a battle cry of his own, letting his fury take him as he drove in on his craven enemy. The archer threw down his bow, but to his surprise the orc drew a pair of axes from his belt, throwing his long hair back as he rushed forward to meet his fate. Vratislav lowered his spear and surged forward, ready to impale the surprisingly brave archer and get rid of him before Libor and Zdeno could finish with the rest of the combatants.

To his surprise, the archer dropped low under his spear and slashed up with both axes, nearly tearing the young warrior open with a double strike of his weapons. Vratislav drove past him and spun quickly, ignoring the gouges in his leather jerkin, keeping with the axe wielder as he spun and continued his attack. Vratislav knocked one axe away only to catch the other in his side, but the pain of the wound only spurred him to more vicious assaults. Ramming forward with his spear, he scored a wound through the studs of his enemy's blackened leather armor, but the warrior paid dearly for his move as the archer spun and slammed one axe back into the same wound he had inflicted a moment earlier before spinning away and once again trying to slide behind the warrior. Again Vratislav turned, and again he managed to strike a minor wound to his foe, but each thrust of his spear opened his already wounded flank to the archer's axe. The same spin around his spear crushed ribs this time and opened his wound further. With blood now soaking his side and pain shooting through him with each step, the young warrior drove forward in a rage, slamming away at his enemy's defenses. Each spear thrust aggravated his wound, but Vratislav continued nonetheless, scoring only the most minor of hits against his enemy as his life poured away through his side.

A second roar of fury entered his fight. Libor was suddenly on the devious archer, his spear tearing through the foe's armor and flesh alike. The archer roared in pain and tried to turn on his new attacker, but Vratislav seized the advantage, driving forward and nearly spinning his enemy around with the force of his blow. The archer collapsed under the combined assault, Vratislav's spear still embedded in his chest as he hit the ground. Vratislav tore his spear free, ready to strike the killing blow, but Libor knocked the weapon aside before he could finish the orc.

"Enough!" the chieftain declared. "He is defeated!"

"He is still alive!" Vratislav challenged, raising his spear to strike again. Libor's weapon was suddenly at the younger warrior's throat, its bloodied tip ready to tear out his throat.

"As were you, when I left you alive," the chieftain pointed out. Vratislav glared in rage at his leader. Zdeno, shouldering his axe, looked past the pair.

"Then what do we do with him?" the burly warrior asked. Libor ignored the question, taking stock of the badly wounded orc.

"A scout," the chieftain said. "And a good one."

"He was mine," Vratislav growled, looking past the chieftain. The prisoner spat out a derisive chuckle.

"You would be dead, boy, if not for your chieftain," he retorted. Vratislav raised his spear with an indignant growl, but Libor raised a hand.

"Let the boy send him off to the feast halls," Zdeno said. "We cannot take a prisoner, and we do not want any!"

"No," Libor said. He turned to the berserker. "Zdeno, chop wood for a travail. Vratislav, find cord or vines to bind him."

"We don't need him!" Zdeno tried again. Vratislav opened his mouth to speak, but Libor's cold glare stopped him.

"Do what I say," the chieftain ordered. Neither orc moved to obey. "Now!"

Vratislav looked to Zdeno. The berserker scowled heavily, but finally moved to find wood for a travail. Without any further recourse, the younger orc moved to follow his own orders.

As they left, Libor turned back to the badly wounded orc on the ground.

"When the first opportunity presents itself," the prisoner began, "I will kill you, Bloody Fist."

Libor leaned down over the orc, his spear held at the captive's throat.

"We shall see."

* * *

><p>For over an hour they had dragged him, bouncing painfully along the ground. His legs past his thighs hung off the end of the crude travail they had constructed, while his hands were bound to the top of the wooden litter. The trip was humiliating as well as painful; no matter the threats or insults, Libor Bloody Fist refused to grant him the honor of a warrior's death.<p>

Suljo glared across their campsite as Zdeno and Vratislav settled down, their fire crackling before the last lights of day disappeared from the horizon. Neither one spoke as they settled in, breaking out salted and dried venison for a meager dinner around the fire's warmth. Forced to lie down by his bindings, Suljo simply glared off into the darkening forest, refusing to beg for food after the indignities he had already suffered at the hands of the Bloody Fist.

"What is your name?" Libor asked. The scout looked back, a cold glare in his amber eyes as he met the chieftain's gaze.

"I would answer you, after what you have done to me," Suljo countered. He spit weakly on the ground at the rival chieftain's feet, although he doubted the insult would push the odd orc over the edge.

"You are hungry?" Libor inquired. "Perhaps food and a little water will loosen your tongue."

Suljo simply turned away from the chieftain, searching the trees for some method of escape, or at least a way of dying in combat against one of the most feared orcs of the Khairathi Mountains.

A sharp blade bit into his wrist. Suljo flinched, but his grunt was borne more of surprise than pain as he felt the crude bindings around his hands fall away. The scout slowly, painfully lifted himself into a sitting position, rubbing his wrists absently for a moment.

"You wish to let me fight you?" he asked, looking expectantly for his axes.

"No," Libor replied. Behind him, both Vratislav and Zdeno watched the two of them, surprise written across their faces. "You would be no challenge with your wounds. You can barely stand."

"I will stand, to fight one last time," Suljo promised, trying to rise to his feet. Barely he made it, nearly falling back against a tree as he nonetheless tried to assume a fighting stance. "Give me my weapons and I will show you what the Flayed Skull is made of."

"Not much," Zdeno stated simply. "Five of you fell easily enough."

"But not me!" Suljo roared, lurching forward. He would have fallen if Libor had not grabbed him, lowering him down to the ground as spasms of pain rocked him from his wound. "Let me fight, and be done with this humiliation!" the scout wheezed, taking a weak swing at the chieftain. Libor let him go, and he toppled to the ground, further aggravating his injuries.

"You are a scout," Libor assumed, sitting the orc up against a tree.

"I can still fight," Suljo said.

"Yes, you can," Libor agreed. "Better than your fellow tribesmen, it would seem."

"Not well enough to earn me a good death, though," Suljo concluded. Libor smirked at the remark.

"Not yet," the chieftain said. "I need you."

"We don't need him," Zdeno corrected him from the other side of the fire. Libor shot a cold warning glance over his shoulder, to which the larger orc snorted in disgust.

"Why would I help you?" Suljo asked. "You are the Bloody Fist. I would gain much glory from your death."

"But you would gain even more glory standing with me," Libor explained. Suljo let out a scornful laugh.

"I will not betray my tribe for you, or for anyone," the scout declared. "Kill me now, for I will not fight the Flayed Skull for you."

"I do not ask you to fight the Flayed Skull," Libor said. Suljo turned a questioning look to his captor. "I ask you to seek out something far more important than a simple raid against your own tribe."

"And what would that be?" Suljo asked, skeptical. Libor turned away from him for a moment, but the scout could not find the strength, or the initiative at the moment, to leap on the orc's back and strangle him. When the chieftain returned, he held Suljo's long bow in his hands.

"This was made by elven hands," Libor assumed, handing the weapon to Suljo.

"I took it in combat, against a pair of the treacherous little creatures," the scout said. "They tried to hide in the trees and kill me from a distance, but I was able to close and strike them down with my axes before they could kill me." Suljo stopped, gesturing to a trio of scars in his chest, nearly marred by the new spear wound he had taken. "Three arrows, and they still could not stop me."

"You prove yourself a capable fighter and scout," Libor said. Suljo nodded, regaining his suspicion of his captor in the wake of his story.

"As I said, not well enough to earn a good death," the scout stated. Libor chuckled ever so faintly.

"Your chance may yet come," the chieftain said. "I wish you to take me to the elves of Argent."

"And why would you search out the elves?" Suljo inquired. Libor's smirk returned.

"I believe they know where I can find _Krvavi Puet_," the chieftain answered. Suljo stared at him for a long moment. Finally, he looked past the orc to the others. Vratislav shrugged helplessly. Zdeno gave a halfhearted nod of assent.

"You're mad," the scout finally managed.

"You're not the first to say that," Zdeno remarked.

"I have defeated you in combat," Libor said, ignoring the larger orc. "By rights your life is now mine. Search out _Krvavi Puet_ with me, and see your glory soar to undreamed of heights. Or linger here, bleeding to death slowly, unarmed and helpless, as winter closes in on you."

Suljo could barely formulate a reply to the Bloody Fist's offer. He looked past the chieftain again, to his companions, but neither of them offered any advice in their expressions or gestures.

"What… what makes you think I will not simply take up my bow and axes and kill you?" the scout tried, fumbling for some kind of answer.

"Your honor," Libor answered simply. The reply stung him too much to deny it.

"I will not fight the Flayed Skull," Suljo warned. "I will not turn against my tribe."

"With luck, we will not even see them," Libor said, nodding in agreement to the term.

"When we reach the elves, my debt to you is done," Suljo pressed. Libor smiled.

"We shall see," the chieftain said. Suljo looked to the others one more time.

"I am hungry," the scout said.

"What is your name?" Libor asked.

"Suljo, proud warrior of the Flayed Skull," the orc replied, puffing out his chest faintly in pride.

"Share our fire, Suljo of the Flayed Skull," Libor offered, stepping aside. Suljo hesitated only a moment longer before he staggered to the warmth of the fire and joined the others.


	10. Allies

** IX**

"Your wound pains you?"

"Does yours?" Vratislav asked defensively, looking ahead to Suljo. The enemy scout, leaning on his bow, had stopped to appraise the younger orc's progress as they made their way up the craggy slopes of the Khairathi Mountains. Although he refused to show it, Vratislav was grateful for the pause. The wounds Suljo had inflicted upon him still dripped blood faintly, but he was determined to show no pain or weakness in the face of this rival.

"Yes, my wound pains me," Suljo admitted, the ghost of a smirk on his face. He nodded to the bloodstained bandages covering Vratislav's side. "It bleeds again. We will stop."

"We do not stop," Vratislav ordered, moving again despite the pain in his flank. He shouldered past the scout, until Suljo shoved his hand into the younger orc's wound. Vratislav howled in pain and dropped to the ground as the scout dug his thumb into the worst of the injury, nearly blacking out. By the time he had regained his senses, Suljo was kneeling on his arm, holding him still as he opened the bandages.

"Your wound is open again," the scout observed, speaking calmly despite ducking a wild punch from Vratislav's free hand. "This must be addressed, or you will bleed out as surely as a stuck boar."

"Get off of me, female!" Vratislav snarled, trying to kick the opposing orc from him. Suljo laughed at the remark rather than flying into a rage.

"I have been called far worse, whelp," the scout said. "But I know more about healing wounds than you know about causing them. Now lie still, and I will make certain that you are ready to fight!"

"My next battle will see the end of your unscarred ways, woman!" Vratislav snarled. Behind the two of them, Libor and Zdeno had paused, but made no move to aid him.

"I am certain I would make a good, child bearing wife, and all of those insults," Suljo guessed, opening the pouch at his side and taking some herbs from it. "This would be over already without your thrashing, boy. Hold still!"

"Listen to the woman, Vratislav," Zdeno offered with a broad grin. Vratislav growled out a curse to the berserker, but the futility of fighting further against his opponent finally outweighed his humiliation at the situation. With the younger orc finally still, Suljo was true to his word, and he quickly wrapped Vratislav's wound once more. As Vratislav remained on the ground, the scout slowly dragged himself to his feet, taking a moment to check his own injury before he turned to Libor.

"Has it opened?" the chieftain inquired. Suljo shook his head.

"For now, it appears that I am fine," he answered. He looked back to Vratislav. "But we should take some rest, or the boy will be of no use to you in battle."

"I thought that would make you happy," Zdeno put in, leaning on his axe. Suljo turned a scornful smile on the berserker.

"I have agreed to lead you away from the Flayed Skull, and so I have," the scout stated, turning to Libor. "You will not see my tribe here. Not this close to winter, at any rate."

"Whose territory is this?" Libor asked, glancing around the craggy ridges. The trees had thinned slightly in the rocky, uneven terrain, while the slope now turned far steeper, running uphill to their west, into the heart of the range.

"This is Zivadin's territory," Suljo said, sitting down against a thick, old hemlock. He chuckled faintly as his gaze swept out over the inhospitable land. "No one else would want this place, anyway."

"Who is Zivadin?" Libor asked, curious. Suljo paused for a moment, looking to the chieftain, before breaking into a half smile.

"Zivadin, the hermit," the scout explained. "Several years ago he was part of the Spine Breaker tribe. We defeated them in a battle not far from here, two years ago now. It was only my second large battle, but I did well that day. Six orcs fell to my arrows before they had even realized battle was joined."

"A coward's way of fighting," Vratislav grumbled, gingerly feeling his injury. Suljo turned a grin to the younger orc.

"Six more fell to my axes, just as you did," the scout continued. "Only, their chieftain was not there to rescue them that day."

"I'll finish you right now!" Vratislav roared, jumping to his feet and grabbing at his spear. The younger orc only barely reached his feet when the pain of his wound forced him to stop, clutching at his side even as he tried to straighten.

"Enough, Vratislav," Libor growled, warning off the younger orc. Vratislav backed down, trying to keep the pain of his injuries from showing through as he slumped back to the ground. Suljo, who had barely moved, turned back to the chieftain. "So this Zivadin did not die in battle?"

"No," Suljo replied. He shrugged. "Some say he is tainted. That he channels the earth itself into his attacks, striking with unnatural strength and shrugging off blows that should have felled him. Some even said that he could command the earth around him to do his bidding, driving down a hail of stone or calling the earth to attack his enemies."

"Many are the tales of warriors favored by their tribes," Zdeno said, scoffing at the idea. "The Cruel Blades had much to say about Dainis' strength and fury, until Ondrej defeated him."

"I had heard that it was a summoned elemental, and not an orc, that finished Dainis," Suljo noted. Zdeno scowled at the scout.

"Ondrej defeated Dainis in single combat," the berserker explained coldly. "Not some mound of rocks. And that was the end of the so called strongest orc in the Khairathis."

"I see," Suljo said, nodding faintly. He turned to Libor. "And Ondrej did not think _Krvavi Puet _was worth finding?"

"Ondrej leads the Bloody Fist while I am gone," Libor replied. Suljo nodded.

"A loyal friend," the scout observed. "Especially if he is to give up his power once you return. I know of few orcs that would give up such a position once it was attained."

"What of this Zivadin?" Libor pressed, leading the conversation away from the issue of leadership.

"I have not seen him in well over a year," Suljo answered. He shrugged. "Maybe he has starved to death."

"Do you know where his camp is?" Libor asked. Suljo turned back to the chieftain, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"Perhaps," he replied. "It is to our west, on a craggy ridge. Why?"

"I would like to meet this Zivadin," Libor answered, looking off to the west.

* * *

><p>They had made camp well before the sun set. With the terrain becoming tougher and Vratislav and Suljo both wounded, Libor had decided not to press the march.<p>

Suljo, without a word, had undertaken most of the chores of making camp, either understanding his position as a prisoner or due to the fact that his skills were suited for such a task. He had quickly chosen a tiny clearing shielded on most sides by heavy hemlocks, gathered kindling and some fuel wood, and started their fire before the sun had reached the horizon. Now, in the last lights of the day, the scout sat apart from the others, leaving Zdeno and Libor alone with the fire while Vratislav, exhausted from his wounds and the march, had already fallen asleep in his furs.

"He is an odd one," Zdeno remarked idly, chewing on a tough piece of salted venison as he watched the scout. Against the last rays of the sun, Suljo had cut down a thin hemlock sapling, chopping it into equal lengths that he had measured with one of his arrows. Now he painstakingly cleared each one of its thin bark with a light knife, occasionally sighting along its length for any blemishes. "What do you think he's doing?" the berserker inquired, watching as the scout tossed one of his branches aside unhappily.

"I don't know," Libor said quietly. He watched the scout for a moment longer, before finally standing and walking to the rocky outcropping. Suljo glanced up as he approached, but then went back to work as the chieftain watched. "When will we reach Zivadin?" he finally asked.

"Another day, maybe slightly longer," the scout answered, barely looking up from his work. He sighted down a new length of wood, then went back to work with his knife. "Not all that far, if we could fly."

Libor smiled faintly at the remark, watching as the scout rolled the branch in his hand.

"What are you doing?" the chieftain asked, curiosity getting the better of him at last.

"Making some new arrows," Suljo answered. "Hunting and fighting had cost me several already, and Zdeno broke another two in his hurry to finish my tribesmen."

"You make your own arrows?" Libor asked, surprised. Suljo nodded with a sardonic smile.

"Yes, I do," he answered, taking a copper arrowhead from his small pack. Libor watched as the scout carefully split the tip of the branch, just enough to fit the flat end of the arrowhead into it, then set it aside. "These won't be perfect, but they'll do for the time being."

"I would have thought you would have your _bogalj_ do such a thing," Libor concluded, watching as the scout took a small length of sinew from his pack. Suljo looked up with a smirk.

"I did that once," he explained. "My arrows flew in every direction except where I aimed. Never again. I only allow old Milan to make my arrowheads now." He paused for a moment. "The poor bastard is almost blind now, anyway. Soon killing him would be the merciful thing to do."

"Most orcs would consider this beneath them," Libor observed. Suljo put down his work, his attention fully focused on the chieftain.

"Perhaps I am too pragmatic for you, chieftain," he stated, a defensive note in his voice. He gestured to the wilderness around them. "Besides, old Milan could not make the trip to do this for me. I need some way of making new arrows."

"You are very self sufficient," Libor noted.

"It is why I am a scout, not a warrior," Suljo explained. He shrugged. "Orcs will always need scouts. And I happen to be good at it."

"You know this land very well," Libor surmised, looking to the forest.

"I have covered much of it myself," Suljo said. "In the spring I travel alone sometimes, looking for signs of the other tribes."

Libor looked back to the scout, nodding.

"I wish you to journey with us, after we find the elves," the chieftain said quietly. "I will need you, if I am to succeed."

"What makes you think one of these arrows I craft is not for you?" Suljo inquired evenly. Libor snorted out a chuckle.

"Because you are pragmatic," the chieftain replied. "If I find _Krvavi Puet_, it will mean good fortune for all orcs, not just one tribe."

"Bold words, Bloody Fist," Suljo declared. Libor nodded in agreement.

"Words that none but a pragmatic orc would understand," the chieftain countered. Suljo's lips turned up into a smirk.

"You're rather cunning with your words," Suljo said, standing and dusting the wood shavings from his legs. "I'll remember that in the future. But for now, the hour grows late, and it's time for to recover from the injuries a pragmatic chieftain inflicted upon me."

* * *

><p>The journey to Zivadin's home was far more difficult than he would have expected.<p>

Libor paused for a moment, resting against his spear as he looked up the steep slope that led to the tainted orc's domain. Even nursing his injuries, Suljo moved quickly and efficiently up the rocky incline, so steep at times that the orcs could only continue by holding on to small trees or rocky outcroppings. At other times it levels off; here Suljo called for breaks, to catch their breath and to check his and Vratislav's lingering injuries. For the entire day they climbed slowly up into the heart of the Khairathi Mountains, using the incredible vistas offered by the peak they now climbed to search out the boundaries of orcish territories and the distant, oak and pine forest that the Argent elves called home. Below them, the crags and valleys of the eastern edge of the chain, where it butted against the human territory known as Tourant, still held some last traces of autumn colors where the deep greens of pines and hemlocks did not blot out the earth tones of the rocky ground.

"If only you had killed this orc when you had the chance," Zdeno grumbled, a few steps ahead of Libor and directly behind Suljo. "Then we wouldn't have to climb this mountain."

"It is your chieftain's idea to meet this orc, not mine," Suljo stated, calmly picking his way forward to a less severe slope. The scout stopped as he crested a small outcropping of rock, looking back to the others. "We can rest here, if you like."

"How much farther?" Libor inquired, trying to gauge the amount of light left in the day. Suljo looked west for a moment.

"We are very close," the scout answered. "As long as he has not moved his camp."

"How do you know where his camp is?" Vratislav asked, finally joining Libor from the rear of the troupe. Suljo smiled as he took his water skin from his pack.

"I don't, exactly," the scout answered. Vratislav's eyes went wide with rage. "But I do know the best place for a camp here. I had used it once before, when Kazatimiru wanted to kill the ogres that had raided our camp. If Zivadin is here, that would be his camp."

"And what if it isn't?" Vratislav demanded, angrily striding up the slope. Suljo grinned at the younger warrior.

"Zivadin will know we're coming," the scout explained. "The earth whispers to him, or so he claims."

"He's mad," Zdeno concluded, turning back to the chieftain. "We're searching for a lunatic."

"He would fit with this war party," Suljo commented. Vratislav turned on the scout with a snarl.

"We shall see," the chieftain decided, placing a hand on the young warrior's shoulder. Vratislav still seethed with anger at the rival orc, but would do nothing as long as Libor restrained him. "If it is not far, we will continue," he directed. Suljo nodded and stood.

The scout suddenly dove backward, only a heartbeat before a boulder slammed into the outcropping where he had been sitting. Suljo took cover beneath the outcropping, barely avoiding the projectile as it crushed the rocks beneath its impact and rolled down the hill.

"Giant!" Zdeno exclaimed, hefting his axe and rushing forward. The berserker could only be right; no other creature in the Khairathi Mountains could have attacked with such a weapon. The chieftain hefted his spear and rushed forward, but could see no giant even through the relatively thin cover of the trees ahead of them.

Another boulder suddenly appeared, seemingly winking into life in midair before it crashed through the remaining branches. Libor and Zdeno dodged in different directions as the huge rock smashed into the ground between them, hurtling down the slope with the force of the impact.

"Where is it?" Vratislav exclaimed, sprinting forward a few steps before taking cover behind a larger hemlock. "I don't see it!"

Libor strained to see through the dim forest, but finally caught sight of something moving through the trees. It turned quickly, with a throwing motion, and an instant later a third boulder crashed through the branches towards the orcs.

"It's no giant!" the chieftain shouted, pulling a javelin from his sheath and running forward. "It is only one person, just beyond the rise!"

Libor did not wait for his allies, instead scrambling up the incline and onto the flat land beyond. The shadow in the trees did not react with any fear; instead, the foe roared in bloodlust and charged forward, hefting a massive sword over his head as he raced headlong towards his opponent. Carried forward by his rage, Libor lowered his spear and surged forward, ready to meet the enemy head on.

The figure ahead finally came into view as they rapidly closed. Burly and naked to the waist despite the cold, the orc raised his sword over his head, bringing it down in a vicious chop on the ground with a bellow of fury.

Shockwaves ran out from the ground where the sword struck it, sending a great shudder through the earth to Libor. The chieftain was nearly thrown from his feet as the wave of force washed over him, but somehow he managed to keep his feet. Ahead, the strange orc knelt to the ground, placing one palm flat against the earth. As he did so, his skin darkened and hardened, impossibly turning to stone as he watched.

"Zivadin!" Suljo exclaimed suddenly, appearing over the outcropping behind the chieftain. Libor paused, spear raised and ready to attack. The strange, stone skinned orc stopped as well, turning to the speaker. "We are not here to fight, Zivadin," Suljo explained, hurrying to Libor's side. The stone skinned orc regarded him coldly.

"Then you do not belong here," Zivadin stated simply. Behind him, the ground moved faintly; Libor could just make out the outline of what could only be an elemental, albeit one far smaller than the monstrosity that Predrag had summoned during the spring to fight Oleksandr's Cruel Blade orcs. Suljo, for his part, seemed not to notice the thinly veiled threat or the small creature behind the tainted orc.

"This is Libor, the Bloody Fist," the scout said, gesturing to the chieftain. Zdeno and Vratislav joined the pair then, ready to attack but holding for their leader's word. "He wishes to speak to you."

"Many people wish many things," Zivadin said. "Why should I care what this orc desires?"

"Because he is chieftain of the Bloody Fist," Vratislav answered boldly, stepping forward. "The most powerful tribe of all the Khairathi Mountains!"

"I care nothing for them," Zivadin said. "Be gone from my mountain, intruders. Or the strength of the earth shall strike you down where you stand!"

"I'll strike you down, lunatic!" Vratislav threatened, raising his spear. Libor put out an arm to halt the impetuous young warrior.

"Fighting you does not help us, Zivadin," Libor said. "It does not help any orc. I only ask that you listen to what I say, and in the morning, we will leave your mountain."

Zivadin turned a cold glare on the chieftain for a long moment, staring him down. Libor refused to flinch, returning the stony gaze for as long as the odd orc dared to hold it. Finally, Zivadin turned away, striding back up the mountain without another word. As Libor turned back to him, Suljo shrugged.

"Might as well keep up, before we lose him," the scout suggested.

* * *

><p>Zivadin led the way, if he was truly leading them, up through the craggy mountain ridges, never slowing or even looking back over his shoulder as Libor and the others followed. His trail wound up through increasingly thinner vegetation, until all that remained were scraggly, wind warped pines and tough underbrush, fighting for land with the increasingly bare, jagged stone of the mountain. The wind seemed to pick up as they gained altitude, its cold lash stinging the orcs' faces as they continued their ascent.<p>

Zivadin finally came to a stop as his trail led to a diminutive plateau in the shadow of a large, jagged face of stone, overlooking the land to the north of his mountain. If not for the harsh weather, the eccentric orc's camp would have made a commanding position; the vista encompassed so much of the land around him that no orc or elf could have approached from east, north, or even much of the west. Without even acknowledging the other orcs, Zivadin entered his tiny encampment, disappearing into a small cave entrance set into the rock face. Libor hesitated a moment as Zdeno caught up to him.

"A gifted voice to rival even the Chosen," the berserker stated dryly. Suljo chuckled behind the pair.

"He has not collapsed the mountain on us," the scout said. He looked up at the sheer stone of the cliff. "Not yet, at least."

"I will speak with him," Libor declared as Vratislav finally reached the others. Without waiting for his allies, the chieftain ducked inside the tiny cave opening, half expecting a rock slide or a sword blade to greet his entry.

The tiny entrance forced Libor to stoop heavily, trying to fit inside the opening, but the cave that opened beyond the tight entrance was anything but small. The cave had been enlarged through tireless work into a chamber nearly twenty feet on a side and more than ten feet high, lit by a half dozen small brass lanterns of Tourant design. The furnishings were an eclectic mix of orcish hide work, human tables, and goblin built benches, topped off by an oversized armoire pushed up against the far side of the strange orc's home. Standing in the center of the chamber, Zivadin glared at Libor and the others as they carefully made their way into the cave.

"I have heard of you, Bloody Fist," the strange orc said. "The earth whispers to me, telling me of the great chieftain to the south. The earth tells me of the madness that overtakes you, Bloody Fist, to leave your tribe with winter upon you."

"Madness?" Suljo repeated, glancing to Libor. The chieftain did not answer the scout, his attention fixed on the orc in front of him.

"And what else has the earth told you?" he asked.

"That you would seek me out, for my aid," Zivadin answered. "You search for something that the earth may yet hide."

"A true seer," Zdeno grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"True enough to hear the earth tell of you, Zdeno the Fat," Zivadin retorted, turning to the berserker. Zdeno began to raise his axe, snarling in anger. Once again Libor held his tribesmen in check. "And of you, Vratislav the Boy. Two scars do not make a true warrior of the tribe, a lesson you shall learn."

"Enough!" Vratislav roared, trying to push past his chieftain. "We do not need this blustering fool and his insults!"

"I will decide what we need!" Libor snapped, pushing the young warrior back. He turned on his inhospitable host. "Be careful what you say of my brave orcs, exile," the chieftain warned. "I cannot and will not hold them back forever in the face of your disrespect."

"Then leave," Zivadin said. "I have no need of your company."

"I would have words with you," Libor countered. "As I said to you earlier."

"Then have words with me, Bloody Fist," Zivadin prompted. "And then begone!"

Libor paused a long moment, studying the strange orc.

"You have heard of _Krvavi Puet_," the chieftain assumed. Zivadin nodded.

"I was once a whelp, sitting at the feet of the crones," their host said. "Who among us does not know the name of the One Eye's spear?"

"I search for his spear," Libor explained. "I would have you aid me, and bring glory to all orcs."

"What do I care of all orcs?" Zivadin asked. "I am an exile, as you said. My tribe was defeated, and I have lost. Would you dare to bring down the ire of your One Eye for taking in such a dishonored orc?"

"Did it not occur to you that you lived for a reason?" Libor inquired, taking a step forward. Zivadin matched his step, coming within inches of the chieftain's face.

"I survived because of me," the exile hissed. "I survived because I made it so! I took the power of the earth, and I sent his tribe racing away like a bunch of unscarred cowards!"

Suljo bristled faintly at the remark, but kept the majority of his anger hidden beneath a stoic face and crossed arms. Libor nodded approvingly to the scout's restraint, then turned back to Zivadin.

"The One Eye gave you that strength, to wait for me to find you," the chieftain stated boldly. Zivadin roared with laughter.

"The One Eye, he says!" the exile roared in amusement. He turned to the walls of the cave. "Do you hear that? He believes that the One Eye has dominion over the very stones of the earth!" Zivadin turned serious suddenly as he whirled back on his guests. "The One Eye holds no sway here, Bloody Fist. Here, only the earth and the winds hold dominion! I am a slave to no god's whims!"

"If you care nothing for your god, then find the spear for all orcs," Libor said. "Without it, we will die."

Zivadin's anger disappeared as he regarded the chieftain.

"As far as orcs are concerned, I am already dead," the exile said. "Why else do I live here, away from those same orcs you would have me help?"

"As I said," Libor began again, "perhaps you survived for a reason. Be it your own abilities, the shelter of your god, or the protection of the earth, you are still here. Come with me, and I will give you a place of honor among all orcs."

Zivadin stared at the chieftain for a long moment, his face as stony as the cave walls around them. He remained unreadable, studying Libor's face for something. Finally, he cracked a smile.

"Glory to Zivadin the Tainted, the Shamed," the exile finally said. His smile broadened, and his chuckle became a deep, belly shaking laugh. "Do you hear that?" the odd orc shouted, turning to the empty cave. "Zivadin, Lord of Earth and Stone, will once again become a lord of orcs!"

As Libor watched Zivadin's strange performance, Zdeno moved up next to his chieftain.

"At least now we have our lunatic," the berserker noted, leaning on his great axe. Libor smirked faintly as he turned to his companion.

"Yes, we do," the chieftain agreed.

* * *

><p>It was near dawn when Libor woke, silently rising in the dark cave that was Zivadin's home. The exile had shoved himself into a small corner, sleeping as close to his beloved earth as he could, while Zdeno's large body rose and fell rhythmically with his snores. Vratislav, barely visible in the fading light of the fire's last embers, was curled up inside his furs.<p>

Suljo's furs, however, were conspicuously empty. At first the chieftain assumed that the scout had simply left in the middle of the night, but his sleeping furs, and indeed his neatly packed pack, remained in the predawn gloom that crept in through the cave entrance. Slowly the chieftain stood, carefully making his way through the dark cave to the entrance and the tiny plateau beyond.

Suljo stood in the first gray lights of dawn, looking out to the north over the dark, silent mountains. In the early morning, a few stray flakes of snow drifted lazily down from the slowly gathering clouds overhead. While Libor doubted that the scout did not hear him leave the cave, Suljo did not acknowledge the newcomer. The chieftain paused, but finally walked quietly to the edge of the plateau to join the scout. For some time the two remained in silence, studying the trees and mountains to the northeast.

"You should have no problems from here," Suljo finally noted, his eyes remaining on the distance. "The Flayed Skull will not venture far from their camp. What few other orcish tribes remain this far north will likewise stay to their tents and fires."

"You plan to return to your tribe," Libor surmised, glancing over to the smaller orc.

"I am no exile," Suljo said quietly. "My place should be with my tribe."

"You can see the importance of this," Libor observed. Suljo finally turned to the chieftain.

"I can see the importance for your tribe," the scout countered. He looked back to the mountains, thinking. "You said we would die, if you did not find the spear. Why?"

"Because each year the unscarred and the flat heads take more from us," Libor explained. "Each year our fury and strength wins us many battles and much glory, but in the end even the unscarred have more than we do. Something must change."

"And _Krvavi Puet_ will help you do that," Suljo concluded. Libor nodded.

"Predrag has shown me a vision," he continued. "A vision of triumphant orcs, united behind the orc that holds _Krvavi Puet_." Libor stopped, turning fully to the scout. "I do not wish to destroy your tribe, Suljo," he said. "I would rule it, yes, but I would not see your tribe destroyed. In order to see the full glory of the orcs, I need you. I need Kazatimiru. I need all orcs to follow me. And then the unscarred and the flat heads of Trzebin will know our strength and fury."

Suljo said nothing, staring out into the darkness. Finally he turned to the chieftain, uncertainty on his rough features.

"Zivadin called you mad," the scout noted.

"As many have," Libor conceded. "We are too slow to change, Suljo. But some would call you mad for crafting your own arrows. Things must change, Suljo, or we will die. The unscarred will remember us only as villains in the darkness, if they remember us at all. That is no way to find a good death."

Suljo studied the chieftain for a long moment, before he finally looked back to the forests below them.

"You look for elves," the scout said. "It will not be easy to find them. You must travel to the northeast, and under the best of circumstances it will still take several days to reach them."

"A path which must be traveled," Libor said quietly, assuming that Suljo had no intention of leading them. The scout turned back to Libor.

"I know their tactics, and some of their language," Suljo said. "I will lead you to them."

Libor's face brightened ever so slightly as a ghost of a smile crept across his lips.

"Thank you, Suljo," Libor said.


	11. An Uneasy Meeting

** X**

Zivadin's gales of laughter echoed off the mountains around them, as it had for the last hour and more.

"Parley!" he exclaimed, shouting to the earth and the heavens. Vratislav looked back over his shoulder as the exile stopped once again to speak to a large boulder along the downhill slope they now traversed. "We will speak to them, and they will not cut us down with arrows and blades!"

"Stealth will be out of the question with that one," Suljo grumbled from the front of the group, picking his way down a steep section of the rock face. Vratislav, for once, wished he was the scout; at least he would not be the last in line before the raucous lunatic. Suljo, almost a dozen yards ahead, still seemed disgusted by the spectacle. "The elves will hear him coming from miles away."

"That may work out in our favor, considering our leader's plan," Zdeno offered, a note of sarcasm to his voice as he spoke over Libor's head to the scout. The chieftain turned a scowl on his trusted companion, but Zivadin's continued conversation with the earth overrode anything he might say to the berserker.

"They call me mad and yet they are the ones that wish to speak to elves!" the exile cackled, slapping the stone exuberantly. "And I am the lunatic!"

"It pains me to say this, but I find myself agreeing with the lunatic," Zdeno said, sparing one last glance over his shoulder at the strange orc before following Libor down the steep hillside. "They will not stop to speak to us. Their arrows will do their talking for them."

"If that happens, then you are free to kill them in defense," Libor acknowledged, following Suljo as the scout continued to blaze their trail to the northeast. "But until then, you are not to attack them, weak and unscarred though they may be."

"They'll certainly know we're coming," Vratislav noted, raising his voice to be heard over a fresh round of laughter from the exile. The younger orc turned back in frustration. "Zivadin! We know what you think of Libor's idea! You can stop now!"

"Oh, commanded by the whelp!" Zivadin exclaimed, finding new humor in the warrior's exasperation. Again he turned to the boulder. "I'll have to watch my step now, or the boy will bring me down like a deer! Although he obviously does the chasing while more adept orcs bring the prey down!"

Vratislav's knuckles whitened on the haft of his spear, but before he could turn back to the exile, Libor pushed back up the hill to confront the mad orc. Zivadin was just turning away from the stone when the chieftain seized him by the throat, slamming him back against the rough surface of the boulder.

"You have made your dissatisfaction with my plan known, exile," Libor growled, bearing down over Zivadin. "We are aware of your opinion on the matter. The earth has also come to know your opinion. Although the earth whispers to me that Zivadin the Exile should learn to control his laughter. Understood?"

Zivadin nodded simply, stunned to inaction by the chieftain's sudden move. Satisfied with his warning, Libor released him and started again after Suljo. Slowly the exile stood up again, leveling an outraged and shocked look on the chieftain's back.

"The earth does not speak to you, Bloody Fist!" Zivadin shouted. Libor turned back to him.

"Do you truly think yourself that unique?" the chieftain inquired. He stopped, cocking his head to listen for a moment, then picked up a nearby stone. "I agree," Libor said, casting a sidelong glance to the exile. Then he gently replaced the stone on the ground, walking away without another word. Zivadin stared at the stone for a moment, then rushed after the leader.

"What?" he demanded. "What did the earth tell you?"

"You speak to the earth, ask it yourself," Libor countered, not slowing.

"You try to trick me!" Zivadin accused, pushing past Vratislav in his hurry to catch up to the chieftain. The younger warrior was too surprised, amused, and concerned by the display to take umbrage at the rough treatment. "You do not speak to the earth! Only I speak to the earth, Bloody Fist!"

"As you say," Libor conceded, a definite note of sarcasm in his voice. As Vratislav watched, the exile stopped in his tracks, glaring after Libor for only a moment before turning back to the stone that the chieftain had spoken to before. As Vratislav continued forward, he caught up with Zdeno, who had stopped and was leaning on his great axe to watch the bizarre spectacle.

"Has Libor gone mad as well?" the young warrior asked cautiously. Zdeno paused for a moment before turning to his companion.

"You're only asking that now?" the berserker inquired, a quizzical expression on his face. Then he turned and followed the group. Zivadin, in a show of panicked frustration, raced back to the stone Libor had picked up, demanding to be told what secrets it might have given up to the chieftain. Finally, Vratislav looked up to the clear, cold sky above him.

"Strength, fury," the young orc intoned. He paused for a moment, then added, "Sanity."

* * *

><p>"We are in elven territory?"<p>

"We have been for most of the day," Suljo confirmed, his bow strung and loosely held in his hand as he made his way through the thick pine and bare oaks. He turned back to the others, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun where it pierced the thick pines. "We have left the mountains behind. This is their forest, Argent."

"How can you tell?" Zdeno asked, looking around. Suljo smirked as he continued to make his way through the forest.

"You did not notice?" the scout asked. "The hemlocks are gone. The pines begin to give way to oaks. And the land here is not as rocky or sloping."

"That is a scout's job, not mine, to notice," Zdeno said easily, shouldering through the underbrush and snapping aside a particularly large pine branch in his way. The berserker stopped for a moment, considering the terrain. "I would have expected a half dozen arrows to be sticking out of me by now."

"Like us, they do not venture as far in the winter," Suljo explained, turning back to the other orcs. Zdeno shrugged an agreement as he absently searched for something to wipe the sap from his hands, finally coming up with Vratislav's cloak as the younger orc drew even with him.

"Hey!" Vratislav exclaimed, pulling his garment away from the larger orc.

"It was you or Zivadin," Zdeno pointed out. "And Zivadin has no cloak."

"The earth keeps me warm," Zivadin proclaimed, puffing out his bare chest as he followed the group. Suljo had considered telling the lunatic to pack more than the great sword and single sleeping fur he had strapped to his back, but decided against it in the face of the exile's rapid, unpredictable mood swings. Over the past four days, even with light snow, Zivadin never seemed to show even the slightest discomfort as they tracked northeast.

"So use his hair, then," Vratislav grumbled, brushing past the berserker. Zdeno chuckled faintly as he followed the younger warrior.

"How far until we reach the elves themselves?" Libor asked, drawing the scout's attention from the other orcs. Suljo shrugged.

"I have only rarely come here, and never this late in the year," he answered. "It could be hours. It could be days. We will continue northeast. There is a river that we will find, probably tomorrow. We can follow it east, and it will take us into the very heart of their territory."

"And we still plan on trying to speak to them," Zdeno assumed, falling into step behind his leader. Libor nodded without looking back.

"We do," he said simply. Suljo only half listened to the berserker's concerns, his eyes fixed on the rapidly thinning forest before him.

Although it was dusted in places by a thin film of snow, the forest ahead of the scout was blackened and charred. The trees as they began to appear through the healthy pines were twisted skeletons of scorched wood, while the underbrush cleared almost immediately to nothing. Acres ahead of them had been deforested by what could only have been a massive fire. As the scout stopped, Libor and the others took notice of the devastation.

"What has happened here?" the chieftain asked quietly.

"I don't know," Suljo admitted. The scout started forward, into the massive dead zone, carefully picking his way through the remains. "It was a massive fire, that much is obvious. It must have happened during the spring."

"How can you tell?" Zdeno asked, splitting out to the scout's left. Suljo knelt and examined a tuft of pine growing up through the ashes.

"This tree has taken root during the summer," he explained. "The druids have likely been here, healing their forest. But much of their magic, especially on such a scale, takes time."

"What caused it?" Libor asked. "Did it just happen, or did someone set it?"

"This was no natural fire," Zivadin said, speaking before Suljo could answer. The exile knelt with his palm flat against the ashes and the earth. "We must be careful, for the elves will seek vengeance for their forest."

"He is right," Suljo said. "The spring was far too wet for such a large fire to occur naturally."

"They will be even more likely to attack us on sight," Vratislav concluded. Libor turned to the northeast, a grim set to his broad face.

"A chance we must take," the chieftain decided. "Be on guard. We will travel through the burnt areas. It will give us some advantage in seeing them before they can attack us."

"You expect them to attack us, then," Suljo assumed, stopping to regard the chieftain.

"I expect difficulties," Libor replied. "But we must make an effort to speak to them without combat."

Suljo paused a moment longer, considering the chieftain and his statements. Finally, without another word, the scout returned his attention to the charred remains before him, growing suddenly uncomfortable in the relatively open area of the burned zone.

"Are we waiting for something?" Vratislav asked impatiently, moving up behind the scout. Suljo said nothing, his hand slowly drifting down to the newly made arrows in the quiver on his hip.

"What is wrong?" Libor asked, noticing the scout's sudden apprehension.

"They are here," Zivadin said quietly from behind the chieftain. Suljo nodded faintly, his eyes straining to see through the heavy shadows cast by the sun as it reached the crest of the ridges behind them.

"They will wait until cover of darkness to show themselves," Suljo concluded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then they will either attack us, or…"

"Or what?" Vratislav inquired nervously. The scout glanced back to the younger warrior.

"Or I don't know what they'll do," he finished. "What orc has ever tried to speak to an elf?"

"Let them come," Zdeno hissed, raising his axe as he prepared for battle. "I prefer a fight to this parley."

"Remain here," Libor said, breaking the tension as he pushed roughly past Suljo. As the scout watched in barely concealed amazement, the chieftain strode into the charred skeletons of the trees, purposefully finding branches beneath his feet to break or frail saplings to snap in his hands.

* * *

><p>"Hobgoblins did this?"<p>

"It is what I was told," Kinain said, creeping through the devastation wrought by the spring fires that had ravaged the west. All around them, woodland that he had once known had been reduced to charred skeletons. Behind him, Collamair wound his way through the trees, carefully following the more experienced ranger.

"The bastards should pay for this," the younger elf said, his voice rising slightly as the pair continued their circuit of the destruction. Kinain did not like his patrols of this area, stepped up since the incursion during the spring, but knew it was of vital importance. Too much had been lost during the spring to allow the hobgoblins a chance to repeat their assault.

"At least the druids have begun to heal the area," the older elf said, slowing for a moment to consider the area. Collamair moved up next to him, surveying the damage.

"It will take a long time to recover," he said bitterly. Kinain chuckled.

"Not as long as you think," the older ranger said, focusing on his student. "Look around you. See the shoots of the pines growing up through the ash?"

"Yes, a few," Collamair admitted. Kinain's chuckle grew into a more pronounced laugh as he shook his head.

"If you wish to be a steward of the land, you must know it better," the ranger said. He gestured ahead of them with his long bow. While the younger elf only saw ashes and death, Kinain could already see renewal through the green tufts poking out of the destruction. "Although this fire was deliberate, fires sometimes break out here. It is part of nature's cycle, to clear old, dead growth."

"We fight to keep the land from burning," Collamair countered. Kinain nodded.

"Yes, to keep it from being destroyed by hobgoblins or orcs, humans or dwarves," Kinain agreed. "But even this devastation is the beginning of something new. Seeds and roots still live under the ash, and within a decade will turn this land verdant and green. The druids' magic only coaxes slightly faster growth from them, to help replace it that much faster."

"That doesn't make it right," Collamair decided, reluctantly conceding the point. "And it doesn't replace Druce or Fife."

"No, no it doesn't," Kinain answered, growing quiet. The spring battles had only seen a dozen or so elven casualties, but they had included Fife, one of Argent's best rangers, and Druce, the esteemed Caretaker of the Grove. Kinain shook his head, pushing onward. "But even without them, we must push ahead. We will not find a way to bring them back here."

"But perhaps we can find a goblin or two, to take our vengeance," Collamair offered. Kinain shook his head once more, ready to tell his student to put such thoughts aside, but ahead of him, something caught his attention.

Kinain dropped down into the charred remains of the forest quickly, swiftly drawing and nocking an arrow. Although he was young and likely had never seen a battle, Collamair did likewise, ducking behind a large, fallen tree. For a long moment the forest remained still, but finally a few words drifted to the rangers.

Ahead of them, barely visible in the distance, a group of orcs had stopped on the edge of the burned forest, talking between themselves until one of their number, wielding a bow, stopped them. The others seemed confused, but the bow wielding orc silenced them without moving a muscle. Taut and with his hand only an inch from his arrows, the apparent scout of this small war party remained still as the trees around him, his eyes on the forest ahead.

"Orcs," Collamair whispered, keeping his voice down despite his nervous excitement. "Kinain!"

"I see them!" the ranger retorted, keeping his voice as low as possible. Orcs, this far from their homeland so close to winter? The ranger tried to think of anything that could drive a war party, especially one consisting of only five of the brutal creatures, so far from their winter camps, but could come up with no rational answer.

"We can take them!" Collamair pressed, trying to angle himself slightly better to bring his bow in line.

"No!" Kinain warned, snapping a harsh glare to his student. Something about these orcs made the ranger uneasy, beyond their simple appearance in the forest. The bow wielding orc, for sure, knew they were present, or at least that someone was watching them, and the elf's eyes were drawn to the hulking, spear wielding orc standing just behind his wary scout.

"We can hit them from here and fall back before they know what happened!" Collamair tried again, beginning to draw his bowstring taut.

"Don't you dare fire!" Kinain ordered, nearly standing in his rush to keep the younger orc from revealing their presence. Collamair turned to his mentor, a disbelieving and furious expression on his face, but a crashing sound forced the pair's attention immediately back to the orcs.

The monstrous, spear wielding orc had suddenly moved forward, making no attempt to hide himself as he strode into the burned forest. His footfalls, purposefully heavy and finding anything underfoot to crack, echoed throughout the devastation. As he moved, he reached out and snapped a charred sapling in his hands, the break echoing through the trees.

"The bastard!" Collamair hissed, drawing his bow once more.

"Collamair!" Kinain barked, almost loud enough for the orcs to hear him.

"He's completing the destruction the goblins started!" Collamair snapped, his voice growing dangerously loud.

"He's trying to get our attention!" Kinain countered. It was what it seemed like, but the elf was at a loss as to why the orcs would want to gain the elves' attention.

"He has my attention," Collamair stated. Before Kinain could do anything, the younger elf loosed his arrow.

The shaft whistled in on the orc, barely missing as the brute skipped backward and to the side. Kinain did not know if he should be happy or concerned about the miss, but he would worry about that later. Even as the shaft slammed into a burned out tree trunk behind the orc, Kinain shot up and knocked Collamair to the ground, snatching the bow from the younger elf's hands.

"What are you doing?" Collamair demanded, scrambling back to his feet. "Give me my bow!"

"I gave you an order!" Kinain exclaimed furiously. "And you…"

The ranger's voice trailed off. The orc had shouted a single word. A single, unbelievable word.

"Give me my bow before they descend on us and kill us!" Collamair snapped, trying to reach his weapon.

"Shut up!" Kinain commanded, pushing the other elf away as he listened. Again, that one word rang out through the trees.

"Peace!"

"Impossible," Kinain breathed. Collamair stopped, confused by his mentor's remark.

"What is it?" the younger elf inquired. Kinain held up a hand for silence, turning back to the orc.

"Peace!" the brute shouted again, his word undeniably elven. Collamair finally stopped as well, looking to the orc that was speaking their language.

"It is a trick," the younger elf decided. He was trembling visibly, the adrenaline of the moment coursing through him. "It has to be a trick."

"To what purpose?" Kinain asked, his eyes still on the orc. As he watched, the brute turned his spear down and rammed the tip into the ground, then left the weapon standing in the ashes as he took another four steps forward.

"Peace!" he shouted again.

"Stay here," Kinain directed. Collamair grabbed his arm.

"You're not going out there!" he protested.

"I have to find out what is going on," Kinain explained. "If something happens to me, run back to Ceallai. Don't stop until you reach it. Understood?"

"Kinain!" Collamair tried.

"Do what I tell you," the older ranger said. Collamair seemed ready to protest again, but a stern glare stopped him. Finally, before he could find an excuse not to do so, Kinain broke cover, his bow held at the ready but his string not yet taut.

The orc's eyes went almost immediately to him, but instead of searching for a weapon or calling to his companions, the brute simply folded his massive arms across his powerful chest. Behind him, almost a dozen yards away, the other orcs of his war party watched tensely, as though they expected him to attack at any moment.

"This is stupid," Kinain muttered under his breath. Nonetheless, he was now committed. Slowly he approached the orc, ready to fight or flee at any moment. Still, none of the orcs moved to attack him, until he was within a few feet of the massive brute.

"Who are you?" Kinain demanded, still ready to draw and fire if it came to that.

"I am Libor, the Bloody Fist, chieftain of the Bloody Fist orcs," the brute answered. The reply was well rehearsed, but it still did not cover up his difficulty with the elven language. Kinain hesitated before his next question.

"Why are you in Argent?" he asked. The question seemed to throw Libor off slightly, but the self-proclaimed chieftain recovered quickly.

"Take me to your chieftain," the orc declared, still fighting for control of the language. Kinain opened his mouth, but as the statement registered he could only stare in shock. For a long moment the two stared into each other's eyes as the ranger tried to formulate an answer.

"Follow… follow me," the elf stammered. He had no idea if he was doing the right thing, but he had never even heard of an orc demanding to see an elven leader. The only conclusion he could make was that the orcs had encountered something that had scared them. And he had never heard of an orc being afraid of anything.

* * *

><p>"Are your mothers the lowest of the whores in your camp?"<p>

Kinain and his younger charge, Collamair glanced to each other in confusion. The simple, offensive inquiry, phrased almost nonchalantly and in his own language, would have garnered some reaction from the two elves if they had understood it. Behind the chieftain, Zdeno snorted out a surprised laugh as he sat on the opposite side of the small fire they shared with the elves.

"You'll… have to speak to me in Argent," Kinain requested, holding up his hands helplessly. Libor nodded, steeling himself to wrestle with the elven language again.

"Is… there long… time to chieftain?" the orc asked, hoping that the question was coherent enough for the elves. Kinain considered his words for a moment.

"You wish to know how much longer we must travel?" the ranger concluded. Libor nodded, growling faintly in frustration. He wished that he had taken more time to learn the elven tongue more extensively before he had undertaken his quest.

"Yes," the orc answered slowly, fairly certain that he had understood the scout correctly. Kinain looked to the forest for a moment as he deliberated.

"It will take us most of the next day to reach Ceallai," he answered. Libor was fairly certain that he understood the elf, but the problems he was having with the language was making things far too difficult. Libor gazed out into the forest for a moment, then turned back to the elf.

"You… talk… Tourant?" the chieftain asked. Kinain wrinkled his brow for a moment, but then shook his head.

"No," the ranger replied. Libor nodded. "Do you speak Mardanian?"

"No," Libor answered. Kinain let out a frustrated chuckle, but Libor continued. "You speak Trzebin?"

"Yes," the elf replied with a nod. "Not well, but yes."

"We will try," Libor said, switching to the language of the goblins. "You say that we will reach Ceallai at the end of tomorrow?"

"I do," Kinain said with a nod. He seemed uncomfortable with Trzebin, but his mastery of that language seemed far better than Libor's weak grasp of Argent.

"And this… Ceallai, it is your home?" Libor inquired. "The home of your chieftain?"

"It is the nearest elven town," Kinain explained. "It is not the home of our… chieftain, but you will meet other elves there."

"I wish to meet your chieftain, not a mere war party leader," Libor said, growing faintly stern. Instead of backing down, Kinain instead stepped closer to the hulking orc, meeting Libor's uncompromising glare with his emerald colored eyes.

"You have come this far," Kinain said, his words growing faintly cold. "Do not snub what hospitality we have shown you so far."

Libor nodded, a trace of respect showing through his features. The elf was brave, if nothing else. Kinain appraised the other orcs for a moment, a bit uncomfortably, before turning back to the chieftain.

"As you wish," Libor said, deciding on tact rather than brute force. The elf locked eyes with him a moment more, but then relaxed somewhat. The elf took a step back, slowly sinking down to his seat beside the fire.

"Why have you come to Argent?" Kinain inquired at last, looking back to the orc.

"To speak to your chieftain," Libor answered simply.

"Why should I believe you are not here to kill our chieftain?" Kinain asked evenly.

"I have come with you peacefully," Libor explained. "To kill your chieftain in such a way would be without honor or courage. Such is the way of the unscarred, not of a warrior."

"Perhaps I do not believe you," Kinain said. "How will you prove your intentions to me?"

"I have proven my intentions by not killing you when you fired an arrow at me," Libor countered. The elf shifted uncomfortably. For a long moment the two locked eyes, until Kinain finally nodded.

"We will reach Ceallai tomorrow," the ranger said, reluctantly accepting his logic. Libor nodded once again, but finally turned to the opposite side of the fire, where his orcs were settling in for the night. As the chieftain sat down next to the fire, Suljo edged closer to him.

"Three languages," the scout noted, picking up a branch from next to the fire. "You continue to surprise me, Bloody Fist."

"I wish they had spoken our language," Zdeno said with a grin. "I would have liked to know the answer to your question."

"It was only to be sure that they could not understand us," Libor said, finding no humor in the situation. Suljo smirked faintly as he considered the stick in his hand.

"You do not tell them why we're here," the scout observed, speaking quietly as he turned to the chieftain.

"I do not," Libor agreed simply. Suljo paused, regarding the two elves across the fire, before drawing a knife from his belt with a quick flourish. The move nearly sent the two elves scrambling for weapons, but the scout turned his blade on the stick in his hand.

"You do not trust them?" the scout queried, smiling across the fire to the elves as they settled back. Libor said nothing. "They do not trust us."

"I will speak to their chieftain," Libor stated at last. Suljo smirked at the reply. "They do not need to know why we are here."

"You don't think they will take us to their chieftain, if they know why we are here," Suljo concluded.

"Let them form their own assumptions," Libor decided quietly. Suljo snickered under his breath as he went back to work. "As you say, they do not trust us."

"No, they do not," Suljo agreed, looking to the elves. They talked quietly to each other, sparing occasional glances to their guests. Their hushed tones and his weakness in the language kept him from understanding what they were saying, but Suljo breathed out another chuckle.

"What are they saying?" Libor asked.

"They're planning on killing us during the night, no doubt," Vratislav guessed.

"The younger one wants to kill us," Suljo admitted. "But the older one seems to think that we are scared of something. He thinks something has chased us to the elves."

"A silly idea," Zdeno said. "Only a coward would think that."

"Let them think that," Libor said. "It will give them more reason to bring us to their chieftain."

"Cunning, as well as pragmatic," Suljo remarked with a smirk. The scout stood slowly, tossing his whittled stick into the fire, then turned back to his furs and his pack on the edge of the fire's light. "It will be a shame to kill you after all of this, Bloody Fist."

* * *

><p>"I don't like this."<p>

"If they attack us, you can take the females, Vratislav," Zdeno offered, trying to inject a tone of mirth into his voice despite the obvious tension among the orcs. Zdeno's great axe still rested on his shoulder, but a simple glance over his shoulder told Libor that the berserker was ready to turn on the elves around them in an instant. Vratislav made no allusions in his words or in his stance; his spear was leveled and his eyes darted from elf to elf, waiting for the first move against him. Even Suljo, likely more trusting of Libor's plan than the others, kept his bow in one hand and his other hand resting on his quiver. Only Zivadin seemed unperturbed; he continued to lag behind the group, trying to take his place behind the elf trailing them, but a rather disturbing smile had come to the exile's face as he kept even with the elven rearguard.

Libor, truth be told, did not like the situation, either. Since they had set out in the first lights of dawn, four more elves had joined the orcs and Kinain, carefully watching from the forest at first but quickly moving to bracket the warriors. Among the six elves, two were female, including one that Kinain seemed to defer to as his better. Together, the orcs and elves had traveled for the entire morning, stopping only around midday for a brief rest that saw the two groups sit and eat entirely separate from each other, trading few words but many cold, distrusting glances.

"It will not come to fighting," Libor stated, holding confident in his plan.

"I will fight one of the females," Zivadin offered, continuing to lag behind with the last elf in line, a tiny member of her race carrying a bow that seemed far too large for her. His tawny eyes lit with a carnal interest as he watched the diminutive girl next to him, an obvious display of which the female was painfully aware. "To the victor goes the spoils, is that not the way?"

"You are a sick orc, Zivadin," Vratislav said, barely casting a look behind him as he continued. His wary, overtly threatening stance had caused the elf nearest to him to practically walk sideways, showing his own readiness for battle. Zivadin laughed at the younger orc's remark. "She is tiny, weak, and frail. Nothing like my Ksenija."

"Does the Single Tusk know that you refer to his daughter as yours?" Zdeno inquired, looking back over his shoulder. Vratislav scowled in embarrassment and a hint of anger at the berserker. Zivadin, however, did not even notice the exchange; he was still focused entirely on the small female that had now drawn even with him, her eyes on the exile as much as on the road ahead.

"Easy to take, and easy to break," Zivadin noted, his foul grin growing wider as he continued to leer at the diminutive elf. She turned away uncomfortably, soliciting a lecherous chuckle from the orc. "Isn't that right, my delicate little flower?" he inquired, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand suddenly.

"Ná teagmháil liom!" the young elf shrieked, jumping back from Zivadin and drawing an arrow to her cheek. Zivadin's sword flew free of its scabbard in an instant as the exile's demeanor went quickly to rage.

The sudden action at the rear sent the entire group into chaos. Vratislav and his counterpart turned on each other, weapons drawn and leveled. Zdeno's axe whistled off of his shoulder as he confronted a pair of the elves, one with his bow suddenly nocked and the other drawing a pair of swords. Suljo and Collamair turned their loaded bows on each other, ready to fire into each other at point blank range. Kinain turned back on the chieftain, ready to fight if need be, but Libor had already turned back on Zivadin.

"Enough!" the chieftain bellowed, freezing the group before they could attack. The exile advanced half a step on his quarry. "Zivadin!"

"She will be mine!" the exile roared, his determined glare still on the frightened girl.

"Faigh amach ó dom!" she exclaimed fearfully.

"Control your disgusting companion, chieftain, or we will kill you here," Kinain warned, his bow nocked and an arrow ready to fly into Libor's back. The orc growled audibly, his tusks locked into a snarl. Zivadin, his sword still pulled back to swing, sneered as he began to move on the girl.

Libor's spear was suddenly in the air, slamming into Zivadin's shoulder before the exile could complete his attempt. The sudden movement sent the girl scrambling backward, loosing her arrow at the spot where Zivadin's head had been. Before the shaft could even impact into the tree, Vratislav and his opponent had charged forward, while Zdeno's axe slammed into a tree, barely missing the elf armed with swords even as the archer fired an arrow of his own that skimmed over the berserker's shoulder. Suljo somehow retained his composure, neatly rolling under Collamair's shot and coming up with his arrow ready to fly directly under the elf's chin.

"No!" Libor bellowed, his voice echoing through the forest. Behind him, Kinain had managed to shout nearly as loud to his elven companions. As suddenly as it had started the battle ended. Libor glanced around quickly, but fortunately no elf or orc had been injured, save Zivadin. As the exile began to stand, Libor rushed to the orc and grabbed him by the throat.

"Never do that again!" the chieftain roared, lifting him just clear of the ground. Zivadin gasped for breath, desperately trying to pry Libor loose with his good arm. "I have traveled far to find _Krvavi Puet_, and you will not lose it because you cannot control your base desires!"

Zivadin gasped out something unintelligible. Libor hurled him to the ground, just in front of the elven girl.

"Look at her!" the chieftain ordered, grabbing the orc by his thick black hair and lifting his eyes to the frightened elf. "She is tiny, weak, frail! Are you so little an orc that you cannot handle something more than this… this infant before you? You are a disgusting, sick, pathetic excuse for an orc! One more attempt like this and you will leave my war party, back to that pathetic mountain you call home!"

Zivadin growled, but before he could do anything more Libor slammed his face into the ground beneath him. Terrified and confused, the scout's large green eyes darted between Libor, Zdeno, and her superiors, seeking some kind of direction. Satisfied with his effort, Libor snatched his bloodied spear from the ground and turned back to the front of the small group. Zivadin stumbled to his feet, beginning to draw his great sword back as he glared after the chieftain, but even as he began to take a step to follow the broad blade of a monstrous axe found its way under his chin.

"Disgusting," Zdeno sneered with a nod to the petrified girl. "My youngest son could break her in half."

Zivadin glared at the larger berserker for a long moment, a snarl seeping through his locked tusks.

"I'll remember this," the exile promised. Zdeno's lips curled into an icy, menacing smile.

"Do so," the berserker urged. Without another word he turned away from the exile, his tone growing notably brighter. "I grow hungry, Libor. When do these elves give us something resembling food?"


	12. Tensions

** XI**

"This is their home?"

"It would appear so," Suljo said, a few steps behind Collamair as the younger elf led the group into what could only be the village of Ceallai. Far from the noisy, filthy affairs of the orcish winter camps, the village of Ceallai barely held a hundred elves, spread out through a few dozen small, round houses constructed of earth and wood. The homes were spread out among trees and bushes, grass and even small shrubs growing on their earthen domes, blending seamlessly into the forest around them. A small creek ran through the center of the village, spanned by a diminutive bridge that at first glance appeared to be nothing more than a slight rise in the ground where the water had carved out a path beneath. On the western side, where the homes had been built partially into the land as it rose back towards the mountains, tiny channels would direct floodwaters around the elven dwellings and to the creek. At the center of the village, just opposite the creek from them, a single white barked oak, spreading its branches over the creek and much of the area around it, seemed to preside over the pines and smaller ash trees around it. No wall protected the village, and even the smoke of their fires seemed to blend into the other smells and sights of the forest. "They choose not being found over defending what they have."

"Easy to raid," Zdeno noted, looking over the camp. Their arrival had been impossible to conceal, and even now a handful of the elven villagers, dressed in simple, ankle length dresses tightly cinched at the waist or simple trousers and loose, T shaped tunics, peered out from the doorways of homes or carefully gathered at a safe distance around the five intruders and their escort. While the elven warriors and scouts wore earthen toned clothes with plaid patterns or solid, dark colors, the village's noncombatants wore a variety of soft blues, greens, and reds. Zdeno nodded with a grin at one of the elves. "Golden jewelry as well," he said, seeing the torc around one elf's neck. "A pretty prize."

"A pretty prize, if you can find them," Suljo countered. "Not as easy as you would think." "That's why we have you, scout," Zdeno said, his voice an odd mixture of amusement and hostility. Behind the berserker, Zivadin still nursed his wounds from earlier in the day, both to his body and to his pride. Still, Suljo noted the direction of most of his attention; the elven girl, certainly an attractive specimen of her race if he had been an elf, had moved to the front of the group but remained consistently in his sights.

"It is a far cry from Bijelo Polje," Vratislav observed, trailing all but the warrior he had paired against during the scuffle. The two of them still eyed each other warily, but they had somehow found an unspoken truce between them. "Is this where we will meet their chieftain?"

"No," Libor said. "I must speak to one of their war party leaders before we go further."

"More time wasted," Vratislav grumbled.

"Your Ksenija can wait an extra day," Zdeno snickered. Vratislav turned a notably false smile to the berserker's back. "Trust me, boy, someday you'll yearn for the raiding season just to be away from your wives."

"That is still some time away," Vratislav commented. Zdeno guffawed at the response.

"Young, and stupid," the berserker said. Suljo could not help but smirk at the interplay. Vratislav, still a little sensitive about what was apparently his first conquest, finally gave a more genuine smile to the older orc. The scout returned his attention to Libor as they stopped. Kinain turned to the chieftain. Speaking to him in Trzebin for a moment. Libor nodded, stony and emotionless, his arms folded across his chest. Kinain watched the chieftain for a moment, then turned and started to one of the buildings.

"So what are we to do?" Suljo inquired, moving up to Libor's side.

"We wait," the chieftain answered. "He will speak to his elders, and see if they will speak to us."

"They could offer us shelter," Zdeno remarked, moving up to the other two. Suljo casually took in the village, smirking as his eyes drifted back to Zdeno.

"I don't think too many of them would be willing to have you in their homes," the scout remarked. As they stood in the center of Ceallai, Suljo and the others could easily see the hostile stares of many of the village's residents. Although Kinain had disappeared into one of the larger buildings, the other five elves that had brought them in remained in a circle around them, Zivadin's female as far from the lunatic as she could position herself. "Especially with that one around," Suljo added with a nod to Zivadin.

"Well then, hopefully that Kinain will return soon," Zdeno said, looking up to the sky. "It would be nice to sleep inside again, with the weather turning cold."

* * *

><p>"It's surprising we have to do this at all."<p>

"I was surprised," Kinain said, walking quickly with Leine as the two approached the home of the old druid Wenna. "It doesn't make sense."

"None of this makes sense," Leine said, glancing back over her shoulder at the odd group assembled behind them. "They surrendered?"

"They wanted to talk to our chieftain," Kinain corrected, shaking his head. "Their leader, that Libor, refused to attack us even after Collamair fired at him!"

"They have to be planning something," Leine said, shaking her head as she continued on. Kinain shrugged.

"I'm sure, but I have no idea what it is," the ranger admitted as they reached the druid's home. Partially sunken into the ground, with few small windows scattered about its dome shaped exterior, Wenna's home sat at the center of the eastern half of Ceallai, a place where almost every elf spent some time learning the forest's secrets from the village elder. Once Wenna ranged all over the western reaches of Argent, but time and responsibility had finally rooted her in Ceallai, teaching the younger generations all she had learned during her travels. As the pair reached the door, Kinain pushed the drape of fine cloth to the side and stepped down into her home.

Inside, Wenna's home was cozy, but still cluttered with herbs and pottery, the hallmarks of her profession as a druid and a healer in Ceallai. Like many of the elves' homes, her hearth was set to one side of the circular room, its floor and lower walls solid stone created by the druid's magic. Wenna had done the same to many of the homes of Ceallai, keeping the elves warm and dry in winter and during heavy rains.

"Kinain, and Leine," Wenna said, looking up from her hearth as the pair entered. Whatever the druid was cooking over her fire smelled delicious, but Kinain pushed his thoughts of the druid's culinary abilities aside as he stepped forward.

"Caretaker, we've… found orcs in Argent," the ranger began, uncertain how to proceed.

"I have heard," Wenna said, nodding to the drawn curtain of her home. The old druid's silvery blond hair, a dying trait of reputed elven nobility, had grown a flatter gray over the past decades, but her deep blue eyes retained their vitality despite her advancing age. Even at full height, Wenna was hardly imposing physically, and the years had stolen some of her strength since her prime. "You have brought them here?" the druid asked. "As prisoners?"

"Not exactly," Leine put in, more to herself than to the druid. Wenna looked to the woman for a moment, then back to Kinain.

"You have a story to tell, I am sure," Wenna assumed. Kinain shifted uncomfortably.

"We… we found them in the burned zone," the elf began, glancing behind him. "Their leader approached us peacefully."

"He approached peacefully?" Wenna echoed, surprised.

"Yes," Kinain affirmed. "He marched into the open and demanded, in Argent, to see our chieftain.

"He… what?" Wenna asked, too dumbfounded to form proper words. She turned to Leine.

"He speaks true," the other ranger said. "I would not have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. He is barely capable of speaking it, but we cannot simply talk freely with him around."

"Or the other one, the scout," Kinain added. Leine turned to him. "Suljo, I think his name is. He may not have spoken yet, but I believe he understands us even better than their leader."

"Their leader," Wenna said, regaining the rangers' attention. "Who is he?"

"He says he is Libor Bloody Fist, leader of the Bloody Fist tribe," Kinain answered. Wenna nodded, waiting expectantly for something more. "I… know nothing more of him," Kinain explained sheepishly. "Only that he wishes to see our chieftain. I assumed he meant King Setanta, but I did not tell him of the king yet."

"A wise decision," Wenna said. She turned to the other ranger. "You have dealt more with the orcs, Leine. Do you know anything of this orc?"

"I have heard the name," Leine said. "The Bloody Fist tribe is to the south, but they are powerful." She paused, glancing over her shoulder before continuing in a lower voice. "If we were to kill him here, his tribe would collapse and the orcs might move back south."

"We can't do that!" Kinain countered. "We… we brought them here! We can't murder them in our village!"

"It would buy us time to shore up our southern defenses after the spring raid!" Leine pointed out. "They would do the same to us!"

"They came peacefully with us!" Kinain said. "If that one tries something more with Ceithlenn, then fine. But not while they act peacefully!"

"Would you like to wait for that one to rape Ceithlenn?" Leine asked angrily. Wenna put up a hand as she stepped between the two rangers.

"Kinain is right," the old druid said. "Unless they provoke us, it is too late to attack them. For the time being, we must deal with them as we would any who have come to parley."

"I didn't know we did parley," Leine grumbled sarcastically. Wenna smiled as she took the younger woman's hand.

"Fife's loss was difficult for you, I know," the druid said. "But we cannot become like the enemies we fight. It will only turn us into… into that which we fear."

Leine turned away for a moment, shaking her head.

"I want you to know I don't like this," she stated. Wenna nodded with a ghost of a smile.

"You and I both," the druid said. She took a step back, to face both rangers again. "So, we know who he is, and that he is a chieftain," she concluded. "Do we know what they want?"

"He refuses to speak to anyone but our chieftain, or king I suppose," Kinain reiterated.

"He's looking for something," Leine put in. "Something called _Krvavi Puet_."

"How do you know?" Wenna asked. Kinain turned to his companion in surprise.

"Libor talked about it with the other one, Zivadin," Leine explained. "He said he had come too far to find it for Zivadin to destroy his chances." She stopped, shaking her head. "He cared nothing for Ceithlenn, just his own desires."

Wenna considered the information, turning back to the cheery fire in her hearth. For a long moment she said nothing.

"Wenna?" Kinain finally prompted.

"We will give them shelter for the night," the druid decided. "We will find someplace for them, someplace that will keep them away from Ceithlenn or anyone else. In the morning, I will speak to them."

* * *

><p>He had long since tired of standing, waiting for the two elves to return. The ground, though cold, was at least somewhat comfortable when he sat on his pack.<p>

"Do you think they'll speak to us?" Vratislav inquired, his eyes still on the elf he had fought earlier in the day. Zdeno shrugged, stretching slightly as he tried to find a more comfortable position for his back against one of the largest pines in the elven village.

"I'm surprised they haven't killed us yet," the berserker stated, clasping his hands behind his head and leaning back against the tree. It was not perfect, but it would have to do. Zdeno was no longer interested in the elves' wary gazes or his companions' nervous stances. "I'm tired of this, Libor. When do we eat?"

"Eat now, if you like," Libor said over his shoulder, his stern gaze still fixed on the hut where Kinain and the female had disappeared. He was distracted, his arms folded across his chest, his focus fully on what was happening behind those earthen walls. Zdeno shook his head.

"Come on, boy," Zdeno said, turning to Vratislav. "Put down your spear and find the venison we have left over."

"This is no time to eat," Vratislav stated indignantly, sparing only the briefest glance over his shoulder before returning his attention to his elven guard.

"He's not going to fight you right now, whelp," Zdeno observed with a bit of a laugh. Vratislav tensed slightly, obviously annoyed by the berserker.

"What makes you so sure?" the younger orc asked.

"They have invited us into their home," Suljo put in, answering before Zdeno could say anything. The scout turned away from Libor and the elven homes before him, walking back to the berserker. "Zdeno's right, boy. Let's have some food, keep our strength up."

"How you eat at a time like this," Vratislav grumbled, refusing to leave his elven counterpart. Zdeno turned a forced smile to the obnoxious scout as he dropped to a crouch next to the berserker.

"And what do you have for us, female?" Zdeno inquired as Suljo opened his pack. Instead of taking offense at the remark, the scout turned that infuriating half smirk to his companion.

"Only some of that last stag I brought down," he answered, pulling out a few large strips of dried venison. "Would you care for some?"

Zdeno nodded curtly, taking the largest chunk of the venison for himself. As he bit into it, Suljo looked to Zivadin.

"Come, eat with us, exile," the scout directed. Zivadin, still fixated on the tiny elven girl that he desired so much, tore his eyes away from the girl for only a moment.

"I am not hungry," he said, looking back to the elf. She shifted uncomfortably, backing up another step from the orcs. A moment later, Kinain's companion stepped between her and the lunatic, saying something quietly to her. The girl nodded thankfully and hurried away, no doubt relieved to be away from the lecherous Zivadin.

"How about now?" Zdeno asked, watching the girl disappear into the gloom. Zivadin growled, his wrath fixed on the male that had allowed her to leave.

"Zivadin," Libor said, not turning to the exile. "Go. Eat."

"I will have her," the lunatic grumbled, making one last search for her among the elven huts.

"Zivadin," Libor snarled. Zivadin turned glowered at the chieftain, but Libor refused to even look in his direction. Finally, without the girl to watch or the chieftain to argue against, the exile lowered himself to a seat with the others. Suljo's smirk was now directed at the exile as he sullenly took a piece of the venison.

"At least find something bigger," the scout suggested. Zivadin snarled at the scout, but, as usual, Suljo showed little care for the hostile act.

"You would let anyone insult you," Zdeno said, barely concealed disgust in his eyes as he looked to the Flayed Skull orc. Suljo shrugged.

"I have never been injured by another orc's words," he said. He nodded to Zivadin. "Their snarls are even less painful."

"It is weakness, to let one insult you," Zdeno pushed, unwilling to let the issue drop. Suljo laughed.

"As you say, berserker," the scout conceded dismissively. Somehow, despite the great honor and glory of being one, Suljo made the title of berserker sounds almost derogatory. Zdeno's hand dropped to his axe, but for the moment all he was willing to do was growl through locked tusks at the unruffled scout.

"You are lucky our chieftain thinks he needs you," Zdeno stated. "Otherwise, I would split your skull for your insults."

"I am certain," Suljo agreed, still in his indifferent tone. Zdeno practically jumped to his feet, axe in hand, before Vratislav put himself between the two.

"You'll have your chance!" Vratislav said, his hand on the haft of Zdeno's axe as he pulled back to strike. "But later! When Libor doesn't need him any more!"

"We don't need one like him," Zdeno snarled. "Always thinking he knows everything, poisoning Libor's thoughts with his insipid whispers. I know a thing or two myself, scout. Like how easy it would be to tear that arrogant head from your shoulders!"

"Another time, Zdeno!" Vratislav tried, pushing him back. Suljo had finally set the food aside, brushing off his hands and beginning to stand, looking more resigned to dealing with a whelp than fearing the wrath of a berserker. Behind him, Libor had turned to the group, his spear in his hands and a stern warning glare on his face. Around them, the elves had tensed, but made no move to separate the two orcs.

"Get off of me," Zdeno growled, his eyes locked on Suljo as he tried to find a way around the younger warrior.

"If you kill him, Libor will kill you!" Vratislav warned, glancing back over his shoulder at the chieftain. Zdeno glared back at his leader and one time friend, furious with Libor's decision to back the scout.

"Get off of me!" Zdeno roared, practically throwing Vratislav away. Before the younger orc even landed on the ground, he turned and stormed off into the gloom, scattering elves with his roar of anger and frustration.

* * *

><p>"What is going on here?"<p>

"I don't know, but I don't think it's the excuse you want," Kinain said, grabbing Leine by the arm before she could draw a weapon. One of the orcs, the largest of them all, was storming off into the village, but if the younger orc on the ground was any indication, the brute's fight was not with the elves around him. Libor, their chieftain, had taken a step to the apparent argument, but stopped, shaking his head and snarling in what could only be frustration. Collamair and the other elves had nocked arrows, but had not even drawn their shafts back to fire as the brute stomped off into the forest.

"What happened?" Leine demanded, shaking free of Kinain and rushing to the other elves. "Where is Ceithlenn?"

"We sent her away," Collamair answered quickly, turning to Leine. Kinain was thankful for the hasty reply; Leine was spoiling for a fight, and any perceived excuse would likely send her into an attack aimed at whatever orc she deemed most likely to strike back. Libor turned back to the others, but it seemed as though the chieftain was actually embarrassed by his underlings than anything else. "We… we thought it would be good to send her out of that lunatic's view," Collamair continued, gesturing to the bare chested orc, Zivadin if he had heard the name properly.

"Then what's going on?" Leine demanded.

"I… well, we're not sure, really," Cathail, Leine's protégé and an excellent young tracker, explained. "They… seem to be angry with each other. The big one threw off his companion and went charging away."

"Has he attacked any of our people?" Leine asked, an almost hopeful tone to her voice.

"Well, no," Cathail answered. "Just… just the other orc."

"Leine," Kinain said. The older elf turned back to him. "Perhaps… perhaps you should go check on Ceithlenn, and make sure she's fine."

Leine's ice cold glare was easily more hostile than any of the orcs' expressions had been since he had met them the previous day. Still, the ranger turned and stormed away, without even knowing where Ceithlenn was. Collamair and Cathail watched her go, then turned back to Kinain.

"What… what are we to do with them?" Collamair asked, nodding back to the orcs. Kinain sighed.

"We'll find them a place to stay for the night," he answered, taking stock of the situation. One orc had stormed off, Leine was likely to try and find a route to find him, and if he was lucky, the fight would be contained to just the two of them. "I hope this goes as well as Wenna hopes," the ranger said, shaking his head.

"One wrong move and our village will be destroyed," Collamair pointed out. Kinain turned on him.

"Then try not to make the wrong move," Kinain directed. He turned to Cathail. "Go find Leine. Make sure she doesn't… make any trouble with the other orc."

"Okay," Cathail said, his tone far from confident.

"Just go," Kinain ordered. Cathail nodded and left as Kinain looked back to Collamair. "You, go make sure no one gets in that brute's way."

"Oh, sure," Collamair said. "I'm sure that won't be difficult. After all, he's only seven feet tall and about as wide."

"Then you'll be sure to see him coming," Kinain snapped. "Go!"

Collamair snorted, but thankfully left to do his job. With Leine and the other orc hopefully taken care of for the time being, Kinain turned back to Libor. With the situation apparently defused, the chieftain once again projected his air of stern superiority, although Kinain could sense the nervous tension beneath the surface. Slowly the elf made his way to the chieftain, growing more grim as he approached.

"There have been problems?" the elf inquired, looking up at the larger orc. Libor paused for the briefest moment.

"They have… been taken care of," Libor answered. Kinain looked past him, to where he could still hear the other orc raging against some poor tree. "Zdeno will wear himself out," the chieftain continued. "He will be no threat to your people."

"I am reluctant to believe you," Kinain said.

"Your female also wishes to fight," Libor observed, trying to defend his orcs. Kinain nodded reluctantly.

"She has lost friends to orcs, and to… other enemies," the elf explained. "Her… mate was killed during the spring. Some say by orcs, who started the fires."

"We did not start the fires," Libor said. Kinain nodded.

"No, I don't think you did," the elf agreed. "But she rages, just as your… Zdeno? Just as he rages."

Libor hesitated a long moment, but finally nodded.

"Then we will separate them," the chieftain decided. He turned back to the other orcs, barking out an order in his language. The youngest of the orcs rolled his eyes, but went off after the furious brute. "Vratislav will watch him, and lead him back once he has expended his anger."

"Very well," Kinain said. He paused for a moment, then nodded to a thick copse of young pines near the creek. "We have no place to quarter you for the night," the elf explained. "But you may use the shelter of those trees. We will provide you with some firewood and blankets, if you need them." He paused for a moment. "Although I think your Zdeno is making a fair amount of kindling right now, if I hear correctly."

"It will suffice," Libor said, looking over to the copse. "What of your elder?"

"She will speak with you in the morning," Kinain said. "And just as well. Tempers are high tonight."

* * *

><p>For a long time, the small hut remained silent. Collamair spent his time poking at the small fire in the hearth, while Cathail continued to look to the door. Miach, the oldest and most experienced of the small group assembled in the hut, busied himself with his sword and axe, while Ceithlenn, the smallest, youngest member of the rangers that had stumbled upon the orcs, kept herself as far from the door as possible, still unnerved by the intruders that had made their camp outside. Several times Collamair had thought to try and comfort her, but there was nothing he could say that would have an impact as long as Kinain and Wenna allowed the orcs to remain in their very village.<p>

"This is madness," Cathail said at last, finally wresting the ranger's attention from the fire that had helped calm him. His companion had turned from the curtain that covered the doorway, his blue eyes flashing with anger as he pushed back his mane of umber hair. "Why are we letting them stay here?"

"Because that's what Wenna said," Miach stated, not looking up from his weapons. His thick, glossy black hair fell down over his narrow features, hiding his face as he worked. Cathail threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

"But what in the Nine Hells would we want from them?" he complained. "They're brutes that will kill us as soon as they get the chance!"

"Then why haven't they yet?" Miach asked, finally looking up. His sapphire colored eyes locking onto Cathail's paler, sky blue eyes. Miach's hair and eyes, so much richer in color than both Cathail and Collamair's impure tones of brown and blue, were a mark of his heritage, said to be traced back to the very origins of Argent Forest. Cathail opened his mouth, but found no way to answer the older elf's question.

"Because they want to find King Setanta," Collamair put in, aiding the slightly younger Cathail. The two elves, friends for most of their lives, were to be paired together in the coming spring, released from their apprenticeships to Kinain and Leine, and even now they worked together whenever possible. "You've seen them, Miach. They're just waiting for the right opportunity to strike!"

"Of course," Miach said, a derisive smirk coming to his face. "If I were them, I'd definitely try to kill the king in the middle of Oakenbough with the most powerful elves of Argent surrounding me."

Collamair and Cathail glared at the older elf, but could find no reply to his statement.

"Well, what do you think they're here for, then?" Collamair asked angrily. "They're certainly not here to help us fight off hobgoblins or giants, or anything like that."

"I don't know why they're here," Miach said. "And I'm not going to try guessing. These orcs are not the brutes we're used to." Miach paused for a second, considering his words. "Well, one of them isn't anyway," he amended. "And that one, for the time being, can control his comrades."

"Yeah, that huge one with the axe is completely under control," Cathail grumbled.

"And the other one, that keeps leering at Ceithlenn," Collamair put in. "Completely under control."

"Zivadin," Cathail guessed. "Yeah, he probably won't try anything at all, not while we're here."

"Please don't talk about him," Ceithlenn said, speaking up for the first time. Only just apprenticed to Miach in the spring, the young girl's eyes, a golden brown a shade darker than topaz, were filled with fear and revulsion as she shivered involuntarily at the thought of the sword wielding lunatic.

"See?" Collamair said with a gesture to the youngest of the rangers. "We're prisoners now in our own village!"

"If he comes for her, I'll kill him myself," Cathail promised, patting the sword on his hip. Ceithlenn forced out a smile, though Collamair could easily see her anxiety over the situation.

"He's not going to get close to you," the older ranger said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

"Thank you," Ceithlenn said, putting on as brave a face as possible. Miach patted his apprentice's knee, then turned to the other two elves.

"Chances are, their leader will kill that Zivadin before either of you manage it," the older elf said. Cathail began to speak, an outraged look on his face, but Miach held up his axe. "Do you really think I like having them here any more than you do?" the oldest of the four inquired. "Because I don't. I really don't. My family lives here. But we have a job to do. We watch them, and we make sure they don't do anything. If they do, then Mother willing, we'll butcher them where they stand. But as long as Wenna has given them her hospitality for the night, we're not doing anything but watching them! Understood?"  
>Collamair and Cathail looked to each other for a moment, but the hut remained silent for a long moment. Finally, Cathail looked to Miach, then to Ceithlenn.<p>

"Maybe… maybe if Ceithlenn were to walk past their camp…" Cathail began. As he let the suggestion go unsaid, the girl paled visibly.

Collamair barely had time to get out of the way as Miach lunged up, grabbing Cathail by his collar and dragging him down to the ground. As the younger elf rose to his knees, Miach slapped him hard enough to snap his head sideways, then grabbed him again.

"What is wrong with you?" the older elf demanded. "You're so worried about Ceithlenn that you want to use her as bait to start a fight? Don't you ever suggest that again, or next time I'll cut your head clean off!"

Cathail backed away quickly, angry and embarrassed at the same time. The hut remained silent for a long moment, nothing but the faint hissing of the fire breaking the silence. Finally, Cathail turned to Ceithlenn.

"I… I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I… I wasn't going to let anything happen… you know, we would have been right there…"

"It's… okay," Ceithlenn said quietly. Miach shook his head scornfully.

"You know what, Cathail, why don't you and Collamair start your watch early?" the older elf suggested, pointing with his axe to the door.

"But… we have at least until midnight…" Cathail stammered.

"Well I think the night air would do you good," Miach said, growing more forceful. Collamair took hold of his friend's arm and dragged him to the doorway, leaving Miach alone with his apprentice. As they left the hut, Cathail looked to the small fire where the orcs camped, growing even angrier at their mere presence.

"I hope the earth swallows them up by dawn," the elf snarled. He even took a step in their direction before Collamair turned him away, leading him into the darkness beyond the elven village.

"You're doing well tonight," Collamair pointed out. Cathail whirled on his friend.

"He coddles the girl!" he burst out. Even then he was still intelligent enough to keep his voice down enough that Miach could not hear him. "I mean, we would have been right there, and then we could have killed them or chased them off!"

"It was a bad idea, Cathail," Collamair said. "You want to use a girl, barely out of childhood, as bait for a lunatic!"

"I never would have let them touch her!" Cathail retorted. "Never! What kind of elf do you think I am? She could have just done it for the greater… and Miach will shelter her from everything! I mean, he's probably sleeping with her!"

"What's wrong with you, Cathail?" Collamair demanded, grabbing his friend and dragging him by the collar of his studded leather jerkin into the forest. "Listen to yourself! Spoiling so badly for a fight that you'd allow Ceithlenn to be hurt, or raped, by those orcs! Are you even thinking when you open your mouth?"

Cathail glared at his friend for a long moment, but ultimately dropped his eyes to the ground.

"Sorry," he finally said. "I just… you see how Leine is, too. I mean, these are orcs, right here in Ceallai! It's driving us all mad!"

"Really?" Collamair asked. "That's what it is?"

"What?" Cathail asked, confused. Collamair shook his head.

"You complain about Miach possibly sleeping with Ceithlenn, but it's okay if your plan allows you to get closer to Leine?" the older elf said. "Fife hasn't been dead a year. Give her time to mourn before you start chasing her, at the least."

"That… that's not why…" Cathail started. Collamair held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't lie to me," Collamair said. "I've known you too long. I'm not blind. I see the way you look at her, the way you follow her lead, all the things you do for her. Even when Fife was alive. Don't pretend now that you don't know what I'm talking about."

"It's… it's not like that," Cathail tried. Collamair shook his head.

"Of course it's not," the older elf remarked. He looked back to the village, lit ever so dimly by the orcs' campfire. "Come on. We have a job to do."

* * *

><p>The first gray lights of dawn were beginning to brighten the village of Ceallai as Kinain rested in the lowest branches of a pine tree, wrapped in his cloak. He had picked the vantage point to keep watch on the orcs, now asleep and snoring quietly under their furs and a few blankets donated by the elves, in case they attempted anything during the night.<p>

Kinain honestly had no idea what to expect from the group. He had expected bloodthirsty savages, but they seemed to conduct themselves with at least a marginal amount of restraint. But once he saw them as rational, one tried to force himself on Ceithlenn in full view of everyone, then another apparently attacked his comrade and then stormed off into the forest, slashing through trees with his axe in a ferocious display of unchecked fury and strength. Only their leader could be considered consistent, waiting patiently for his audience with Wenna in the morning.

Their leader, and their scout, Kinain amended to himself.

The scout was the only orc awake, stirring the embers faintly from time to time. That one, slightly smaller than the rest, was easily the one Kinain worried about the most if combat ensued. The berserker, the young warrior, the lunatic, and even the chieftain were predictable in what they would do. The scout, however, seemed to be possessed of an intelligence and cunning that outshone his companions. Even now, his eyes occasionally looked to the pine where Kinain rested, ensuring that the silent sentry was still in his position.

Kinain dropped out of the tree slowly, pulling his cloak about him in the predawn cold. Winter was fast approaching, and soon these orcs would have to either wait out the cold weather somewhere or return to their distant tribe. Taking a moment to stretch his legs, the ranger ambled across the village to the orcs' fire, his bow held loosely in one hand. The orcish scout looked up, but made no other acknowledgement as Kinain drew close. After a moment of hesitation, the elf moved up to the fire and crouched down, warming himself over the embers. For a time the two shared the fire without speaking, the scout drawing his small knife and whittling down a stick, the elf returning some heat to his chilled fingers. Finally, Kinain looked across the fire.

"You know our language, don't you," he guessed. The scout looked up, but said nothing. "What is your name?"

For a long moment the orc simply stared at him, his amber eyes calm and free of malice. Kinain became certain that the scout would continue to feign ignorance, but then the scout nodded his head as though satisfied with something the elf has said.

"Suljo," the orc replied simply. Kinain smiled.

"Suljo," he repeated. "It is an odd name. To me, at least."

"As your names are to me," Suljo quipped. His words were heavily accented; he would never be mistaken for a native speaker, but he was a far cry better than his chieftain. The two studied each other over the fire, but lapsed into silence again for some time.

"How did you learn the elven language?" Kinain asked, trying to keep the conversation alive.

"I listen," Suljo explained. "I listen for many years. I learn also from hobgoblins, who know your language."

"You… are very good at it," Kinain admitted. Suljo smiled ever so slightly.

"Thank you," he said. The two lapsed into silence again; Suljo was not malicious, but he was no conversationalist either.

"What… what are you looking for in Argent?" Kinain inquired. The question was far more blunt than he would have liked, but the scout took no offense.

"For your chieftain," Suljo answered. Kinain chuckled at the neat evasion.

"You wish to speak to him," the elf noted. Suljo nodded. "But why?"

"That is for Libor to answer, not me," Suljo replied. Kinain nodded with a faint sigh.

"What is _Krvavi Puet_?" he asked, trying a different tactic. Suljo paused a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. He hid it well, but the orc was certainly surprised by Kinain's knowledge.

"It is blood, still flowing from the wound," the scout finally answered. Kinain paused for a moment, uncertain how to accept the answer.

"Your chieftain seems determined to find this blood flowing from a wound," the elf observed.

"He is not my chieftain," Suljo countered. Kinain turned a surprised look to the orc. "I am a warrior of the Flayed Skull."

"But… you follow him," Kinain said, gesturing to the sleeping chieftain. Suljo nodded.

"A debt of honor," the scout explained. He looked to the sleeping chieftain for a long moment, his expression growing distant. "And… something more."

"Something more?" Kinain echoed. Suljo's focus snapped back to the present as he looked back to the elf.

"It is no matter," the orc stated, brushing the topic aside. He looked past Kinain, to Wenna's home. "When will your elder meet with us?"

"Soon," Kinain reasoned, looking to the brightening sky. "She rises early, usually with the first rays of the sun. You will not have much longer to wait."

* * *

><p>The sun was still hidden behind the horizon when Libor awoke. In the peaceful dawn, the elven village remained silent and serene, frosted over by the chilly night. Slowly the chieftain rubbed the sleep from his eyes, carefully sitting up to not awake his companions.<p>

Across the last embers of their camp's fire, Suljo still sat awake, wrapped tightly in his cloak and furs. Sitting next to him, in total silence, was the elf Kinain, similarly warded against the cold. As the chieftain sat up and pushed his furs aside, the elf stood, nodding to Suljo before leaving the fire.

"You have become friends with the elf," Libor assumed, watching as Kinain wandered back into the village. Suljo shrugged.

"That one is more willing to speak than the others," he said. He gestured to the tree line, where the raven haired female still watched them with open contempt in her clear blue eyes. "Some others are not so open."

Libor nodded, turning away from Suljo and the female elf as he took care of his morning business. The elf wrinkled her face in disgust at his crude use of the creek as his latrine, but did little else as he finished up and returned to the fire. Suljo had begun to throw a few splintered pieces of wood on the fire, evidence of Zdeno's rage the previous evening. For a short time the two remained at the fire, saying nothing, until Kinain emerged from one of the huts in the center of the village, a far older elven female behind him. Zdeno, just waking, looked past the fire to the pair with a groan.

"Their females run everything, it would seem," the berserker grumbled, pulling himself out from under his furs. "No wonder they spend so much time hiding."

"Some of them do speak our language," Suljo stated. "Kinain has asked me what _Krvavi Puet_ is."

Libor growled under his breath.

"It is no matter," he decided. "We must deal with them."

Libor stood as the pair approached, waiting patiently for them to meet him. The old female, barely larger than the focus of Zivadin's obsession, moved ahead of her escort, smiling politely.

"You are Libor, the Bloody Fist," she assumed, speaking to the chieftain. She spoke in perfect orcish. Libor nodded. "You have come to meet our chieftain?"

"I have," Libor agreed. The old elf nodded.

"My name is Wenna," she explained. Behind him, Libor could hear Zivadin and Vratislav awaking to the conversation. "I am Caretaker of Ceallai. I suppose you could call me a chieftain, although the title is not one I particularly like. But I feel your questions are not for me, but for our king?"

"King," Libor repeated. "Yes, a king would answer my questions."

"King Setanta is in Oakenbough," Wenna informed him. "It would be a travel of many days to reach our capitol. Once you were there, however, you would not be able to leave, for we cannot trust you with the location of our king's home."

"We will not become your slaves," Libor stated. Wenna nodded.

"Nor would we expect you to," the old female agreed. "What is it that you desire of our king?"

"To speak with him," Libor answered. Wenna's smile broadened.

"Of this _Krvavi Puet_?" she inquired. A snarl, however slight, escaped Libor's lips. Kinain tensed, but Wenna seemed more amused than anything else. "You must trust me, Libor of the Bloody Fist. Or else you will never find King Setanta."

"Kill her and have the others take us to their king," Zdeno suggested. Kinain's hands dropped to his weapons, a clear sign that he somehow understood all of what was being said. Libor held up a hand.

"You know how fruitless that would be," the elf assumed. "You are different from the others, chieftain. You know that we will never lead you to Setanta under threat of death. You must find another way."

"How?" Libor asked. Wenna nodded approvingly.

"Come, join me in my home," the female said. She turned and started back to her hut, walking slowly. Libor watched for a moment, then turned to Suljo.

"Come with me," he directed. Suljo nodded.

"Him?" Zdeno asked, shocked. "He… he is a scout, and a member of the Flayed Skull!"

"And he speaks elven and knows their ways," Libor retorted. "Remain here. Remain on guard. And keep Zivadin away from his delicate flower."

Zdeno growled in obvious frustration, but Libor had no more time for his companion's ire. Purposefully he strode after Wenna, Suljo following a step behind and entering her hut.

The inside of Wenna's home was only barely large enough for the chieftain to stand at full height. The two orcs remained just a step inside the door once they entered, taking stock of the slight female and another elf, one that they had not seen the previous day. This one was dressed in fine silken robes of emerald and gold, tightly cinched at the waist and flared out at the wrists; for a moment Libor mistook him for another female. His silvery blond hair, long and neatly brushed, was tied back in a loose tail that ran down between his shoulders. Wearing six rings, a large pendant, and a torc of white gold, the elf's jewelry alone could buy a hundred spears from the goblins of Trzebin.

"Libor Bloody Fist," the richly dressed elf assumed, his sapphire blue eyes cold and untrusting. He also spoke the orcish tongue with no hint of difficulty. "I am Lord Caradoc of Oakenbough."

"You are not the king," Libor concluded. Caradoc nodded.

"I am advisor to King Setanta," the elf explained. "Why do you wish to see him?"

Libor looked to Wenna for a long moment. The older female nodded reassuringly, trying to coax him into cooperation.

"I must see him," the chieftain replied. "He has a relic of my people, one that was taken from us long ago."

"_Krvavi Puet_," Lord Caradoc guessed. Libor nodded.

"The elves took it long ago," the chieftain said. "I would have it returned."

"And if we do not have this… _Krvavi Puet_?" Lord Caradoc inquired.

"Then I will find all that I can of it," Libor said, "and then we will continue our search."

"Many of my people think you will try to murder our king," Caradoc said. "Is this your goal?"

"If we wished to make war upon you, it would be a glorious affair worthy of the One Eye," Libor explained. "Flat heads and unscarred may wish to steal into a camp during the night and kill their enemies. Orcs do not do this."

Caradoc paused for a moment, looking to Wenna. They spoke in their own language quickly, but then Caradoc turned back to the orcs.

"If it is peaceful negotiation you seek, then I will bring you to Oakenbough," the lord explained. "But I warn you, Libor of the Bloody Fist. If you do try to attack us, you will pay the price for your betrayal of our trust."

"I would expect no less," Libor said. "We will not attack you or any of your kind while we are here, unless we are provoked. But we will leave Oakenbough once we have spoken to your king."

Caradoc nodded.

"Gather your people," the lord said. "I will bring you to Oakenbough myself."


	13. Negotiations

**XII**

A wave of vertigo, a swirl of soft, multihued light, and then a new location.

Libor's stomach still turned as he found himself once more on solid ground, but the chieftain's new position was far from the small village of Ceallai. Around him, his orcs righted themselves after the jarring experience of teleportation, warily taking in their new surroundings. Lord Caradoc of Oakenbough had teleported them all, as well as Wenna, Kinain, and the younger Collamair, showing his power as a sorcerer and denying them any knowledge of the route to the heart of the elven nation.

"Welcome to Oakenbough," Caradoc declared, turning back to the still nauseous group. Of all the travelers, only the frail wizard seemed unruffled by the arcane transport. The group stood in the center of a small ring of standing stones, each one tapering as it pointed skyward. The ground they stood on was a small area paved with white stone, set in circles shrinking into the center of the space. Beyond Caradoc, the land dropped off sharply to a bubbling river winding its way through the thick oak and pine forest along its banks.

"I think I would have preferred walking," Vratislav muttered, one hand on his stomach as he leaned on his spear. Zdeno said nothing as he looked beyond the younger warrior, taking in what lay beyond the standing stones. Dominating both sides of the river, monstrous oaks, their trunks several feet in diameter and their canopies spreading over an impossibly large area, grew above their smaller kin. In the shadows of those massive trees, the homes of the elves remained partially hidden from view, the round huts of Ceallai mixing in with fewer, but more prominent, homes of perfectly rounded and spiraling white stone nearly identical to the material of the standing stones surrounding them. Three bridges, two of intricately constructed, dark wood and a central span made of the same alabaster, connected the two halves of Oakenbough as it straddled the river.

"No wall, and no guards," the berserker finally noted, his eyes sweeping over the quaint town. "We should have raided this place long ago!"

"Perhaps," Libor said, looking up into the branches of the gargantuan oaks. More homes, round like the ones on the ground but made entirely of wood, were nestled among the massive branches, more noticeable as the last leaves turned brown and began to drop from branches as large as trees in their own right. Walkways and platforms, some looking to be nothing more than the tree or tangles of vines, connected homes and the different trees, providing more routes across the river. All around rope ladders dropped to the ground, linking the treetops with the earthbound homes. Taking in the homes suspended in the trees, Oakenbough was nearly double the size he had originally assumed. As the chieftain studied the elven capitol, Suljo moved to his side.

"Likely they would take their people into the trees," the scout discerned, "then fire down on their enemies with arrows."

"A coward's way of fighting," Zdeno huffed. Suljo nodded.

"And very effective," he added. Zdeno shook his head in disgust.

"Each day you become more like one of these unscarred," the berserker spat. "Perhaps you should live among them, if you like them so much."

"I respect them for their knowledge," Suljo countered. "They know they cannot face us as equals on the battlefield. So they hide, and inflict their wounds from a distance."

"He is right," Libor said, turning to Zdeno. "Learn what you can, for the day is coming that we may fight here in glorious war."

"Perhaps you forgot that I can understand all you say," Lord Caradoc interjected, a look of surprised anger on his face. "I have brought you here for peaceful parley with our king. If I find that your sole purpose here is to judge our defenses, then the least I will do is teleport you somewhere that you will never find your way home from."

"And the least I can do is jam my spear down your throat," Vratislav challenged, raising his weapon as he advanced on the elf. Libor stepped between the younger warrior and his target, although Zivadin's derisive laugh at the young orc's bravado caught Vratislav's attention away from the elven wizard. Caradoc still glared at the orcs with open rage, no doubt ready to call upon the arcane might that he wielded.

"We will speak no more of your defenses," the chieftain promised. Behind him Vratislav reluctantly backed down, but even with his back to the berserker Libor could feel Zdeno's rage. "You are generous to bring us to your king in such a quick manner. I respect your power."

Caradoc paused a long moment, judging the chieftain's words. Finally, his ire at least partially ameliorated by the chieftain's words, the elf nodded.

"Kinain," the wizard said, not taking his eyes from Libor. "Bring these… guests to the base of the King's Tree. They can wait there for King Setanta to see them. They are not to go anywhere else in Oakenbough."

"As you wish," Kinain said. Caradoc shot one last glare to the orcs, then turned and left with Wenna for the elven city. As they left, Kinain turned to the group.

"Follow me," the ranger said, leading them into the city. Libor fell into step behind the elf, leading his orcs, while Collamair dropped in behind the group. They had barely taken a dozen steps when Zivadin let out a tittering laugh from the rear of the group.

"You sound like a female," Vratislav noted, glancing over his shoulder with distaste.

"I should like to see Zdeno the Fat raid this place," Zivadin began, a broad smile on his face. "This place pulses with the strength of the earth."

"Elven magic does not frighten me," Zdeno growled.

"Enough," Libor directed, turning back to the group. "There will be no more talk of their defenses."

"Unless their defenses come to us?" Suljo inquired, nodding ahead of the group. Libor turned to find a small group of elves heading in their direction, led by a rather sturdy looking member of their kind dressed in a gleaming breastplate of intricately embossed silvery metal and a rich green cloak bordered in gold. The other elves with him were similarly attired, wearing polished chain mail and carrying long swords and round shields. As they approached, Kinain stopped in his tracks, almost uncertain how to react to the newcomers.

"General Teirtu," Kinain said. "We… have orders from Lord Caradoc to bring these guests to-"

"I know your orders, ranger," General Teirtu said, his brilliant emerald eyes drifting from Kinain to Libor. The elven general turned to him, forced to look up to the chieftain due to the orc's far larger size. Despite that, Teirtu refused to flinch or back down from Libor, or any of the other orcs; this was an elf that Libor could respect, for his bravery if nothing else. "You'll follow me, chieftain," the general directed in a cold voice. "The others will be quartered at the base of the King's Tree."

"We will not abandon our chieftain to you," Zdeno declared, stepping up behind Libor. Teirtu, for his part, stepped around Libor to confront the far larger berserker.

"Do you think me foolish enough to admit five total strangers, fully armed, into the King's presence?" the elf challenged, glaring up at the berserker. "You are lucky your chieftain alone will meet with King Setanta!"

"Show respect for your betters, unscarred!" Vratislav countered, moving to join Zdeno.

"Enough!" Libor shouted, stopping the confrontation before it could begin again. He turned to Zdeno. "Follow the elves to your quarters. I must do this alone."

"Useless bravado," Zivadin chuckled, ambling past the two warriors with his great sword balanced on his shoulder. "They won't attack us. Provoke us into striking first, of course, but they won't attack us."

"Control your orcs, chieftain," Teirtu warned, spitting out Libor's title as though it were a curse. Libor turned to Zdeno, ignoring the elf for the moment.

"Do not start a fight," the chieftain stated. Zdeno snorted in reply. "Keep yourself and the boy out of trouble."

"We will be good little unscarred," Zdeno promised. Libor inhaled deeply. "Have your meeting with their king," the berserker continued. "We will wait."

* * *

><p>Orcs were to be slaughtered, not spoken to.<p>

Teirtu had seen far too many battles to be taken in by such antics. Orcs were nothing more than vicious, bloodthirsty brutes. Over three centuries he had viewed the piglike orcs as better than goblins only because they lacked the organization and subtlety of the hobgoblin court of Trzebin. The only good thing the general could say about the orcs was that they were too stupid to be devious.

Teirtu stopped on the winding platforms that curled up around the great trunk of the King's Tree, waiting once again for the far larger orcish chieftain to follow. The orc's bulk continued to slow him on the narrow rope bridges and walkways that stretched around and between the monstrous oaks that reached over both banks of the River Emblez, while the smaller elf had no such problems. As the orc struggled to keep up, the elven general folded his arms across his mithril breastplate.

"The king is expecting us," Teirtu said, not caring to hide his distaste for the orc beneath more than the thinnest veneer of civility. "We should not insult him by making him wait."

"We should not," the chieftain agreed, pushing ahead despite his problems with the walkways. Teirtu scowled the faintest bit; this Libor was far more difficult to bait than the typical orc. Most would have taken affront to their honor and lashed out in anger, but instead Libor continued to push on behind him. Teirtu found himself more than a bit annoyed that he could not push the orc easily into combat and avoid the necessity of exposing King Setanta to the vile creature he now led to the audience hall.

The final pathway to the King's Hall wound steeply up the trunk to the crown of the tree, more than forty feet above the ground. In the center of the crown, the hall had been partially constructed and partially grown from the oak itself, forming a monstrous round chamber with grand double doors that now stood guarded by a pair of Teirtu's most combat capable guards. As the two guards saw their general, they snapped to attention, their eyes fixed sternly on the intruder following him.

"My lord," both stated at the same time. Teirtu gave them only the slightest nod before turning to Libor.

"Give them your weapons," the general ordered.

"I will not," the brute countered, glaring down on Teirtu. The elven general tensed, his hand dropping to his long sword as he eagerly expected the coming battle.

"You will give them your weapons, or you will not see the king," Teirtu stated coldly. Libor's eyes narrowed as he studied the elf, his green tinted knuckles growing white on the heavy spear in his hands.

Libor turned to one of the guards, slowly handing over his spear and the javelins he carried on his back. The grin that was just beginning to tug at the corners of Teirtu's mouth turned quickly to a snarl of frustration.

"Open the doors," the general ordered, his tone stern. The two guards moved to obey immediately, opening the way for the first orc ever to appear the chambers of the elven king. Swallowing his growl of disgust, Teirtu led the brute through the doors and into the home of King Setanta. Just inside the doors, Caradoc met them in a small foyer, addressing Libor quickly.

"You may speak in your own language," the wizard appraised the orc. "I have already prepared the king and his council to receive you that they will understand what you speak and be able to speak back to you."

Libor nodded, but said nothing. Caradoc paused a moment longer, but then headed into king's meeting hall. Teirtu delayed a moment longer, giving the wizard time to retreat to the king's dais, then finally led his charge into the audience chamber.

* * *

><p>Nothing in all of Bijelo Polje could compare to the throne room of the elven king.<p>

Libor remained stoic as he entered the chambers of King Setanta, unwilling to show any open appreciation of the workmanship that had obviously gone into the elven throne room. The chamber was smaller than the temple to the One Eye in Bijelo Polje, but it was far more than the crude, dimly lit stone and log structure where his god was venerated. Its high, vaulted ceiling and floors were both made of wooden planks polished to an almost ivory sheen, while tall, narrow windows of bright stained glass, unknown even among the wealthiest of orcs, allowed a flood of light into the cheery interior. It was a work of art, but it was all wrong for a first meeting place of visitors; the only show of strength came in the frame of the building, grown from the mighty oak itself rather than cut and placed by craftsmen. In a few places, small branches, the last leaves of the year still clinging stubbornly to the twigs, grew from the supports, adding to the natural feel of the interior. With no image of strength in the room, Libor found the elven monarch sitting opposite him to be less than imposing.

Across the thirty feet or so of the throne room, sitting on an elaborate throne grown from the oak itself, was the apparent king of the elves, Setanta. With hair of an almost metallic silver and clear, large eyes of deep sapphire color set in a narrow, sharply angular face, the king was hardly an imposing figure, likely not even among his own kind. Dressed in elaborate breeches and tunic of varying shades of vibrant green and gold, he also wore more gold than an orc had a right to; armbands, heavy bracelets, and an ornate pendant of emerald and jade on a golden chain. On his head was the mark of his rulership; an almost delicate looking circlet of golden oak leaves, crusted with more emerald and jade. Around him stood his court, an odd mix to say the least. Wenna and Caradoc sharply contrasted each other with their differences in dress, but others showed different contrasts. To the king's right, a stocky elven male dressed in mottled hunting leathers, far more suited to forest hunting than to the elegant manse, stood with his painted arms crossed over his chest, his jet black hair barely gathered back in a thick ponytail. The youngest of the group barely looked to have reached maturity, her silvery blond hair more or less brushed and her simple earth colored robes mostly clean and neat. Despite her age, Libor noticed her limp slightly as she moved to her position, using the smooth, oaken staff she carried as a crutch. Standing just behind her was an older, black haired male dressed in similar robes, his head adorned by a simple circlet of gold fashioned into ivy leaves. The odd mix of silken robes and simple hunting attire did little to help the chieftain sort out the opinions of these people; only Tiertu, already dressed for battle, showed his opinion of the orcs.

"My lord," the elven general began, his tone painfully formal. "This is Libor Bloody Fist, chieftain of the Bloody Fist orcs."

"I have heard much about you over the past day, Libor Bloody Fist," King Setanta said, looking down from the dais of living oak where his throne grew. "I have never known an orc to seek an audience with elves."

"I have come for the spear of the One Eye, _Krvavi Puet_," Libor stated, boldly stepping forward. He did not like the king's position, looking down on him, but his step seemed to make him shorter instead of taller. "Long ago it was taken by your people in battle against the orcs."

"Ker… the Spear of the One Eye?" King Setanta tried, sounding confused. Next to him, the stocky elf leaned into him.

"The One Eye is their god," he informed the king. "He must be searching for some kind of relic."

King Setanta nodded, his eyes never leaving the chieftain.

"We have had no major battles, and even few skirmishes, with orcs for over two centuries," the king said. "And during that time, we have taken no weapons of any import during these skirmishes."

"_Krvavi Puet_ has been lost for generations," Libor informed the king. Every moment he spent looking up made him feel less powerful; perhaps these elves did know something of appearances, after all. "I have been charged to recover it."

"Why would we give such a weapon back to you, if we did have it?" Teirtu asked coldly.

"Because it is honorable," Libor responded, turning to the general. Teirtu's emerald eyes grew wide with outrage.

"You, who destroy, murder, and pillage all you come across, dare to lecture me on honor?" Teirtu exclaimed, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword.

"Stand down, Teirtu," King Setanta ordered, his voice catching Libor before the chieftain could turn on the general. Reluctantly, a snarl on his thin lips, Teirtu forced himself back a step, but his hand remained dangerously close to the ornate long sword on his hip. As Libor turned back to the king, the older, ivy crowned elf took a step forward.

"My name is Cabrach," the elf informed him. "I am Caretaker of the Grove of Oakenbough. I must ask you, Libor Bloody Fist, what would you do with this spear, were you to reclaim it?"

"I will unite all the tribes under the Bloody Fist," Libor answered proudly. "I will show what it is to the rest of the world to be an orc."

A ghost of a smile formed on Cabrach's lips as he nodded.

"And I suppose all the other orcs will simply bow down before you," Teirtu sniped. Libor turned a snarl on the general, fighting to keep his patience. The elf was baiting him; he had to maintain control. Fury would not aid him here. A vicious grin formed on the elf's face as he realized how close the chieftain was to losing his temper.

"General, he has come in peace, for the time being at least," the young female suddenly chimed in. Her clear, deep blue eyes shone with displeasure at the warrior's actions. "He does not deserve to be provoked."

"Do you think he would show us such courtesies if we entered his mud hut of a throne room?" Teirtu demanded, turning an incredulous glare on the young female.

"We are not in his mud hut of a throne room," she snapped back, refusing to flinch. Teirtu's mouth opened in shock and outrage, but for a moment he could form no words.

"Lady Valtaya is correct, general," King Setanta said, pulling the focus back to him. "As elves, we must show even this chieftain the respect we would give to any visitor to our court."

Teirtu glared at Lady Valtaya a moment longer, but finally turned to his king.

"Yes, my liege," the general grumbled.

"I must ask you, chieftain," Cabrach continued, almost as though the confrontation had not taken place, "what does it mean to be an orc?"

"Strength and fury," Libor answered proudly. "Courage, Honor. Glory in battle. These are the things that make a true orc."

"Glory in battle," the stocky elf repeated. "Pillage, rape and destruction is what you mean."

"We fight glorious war in the name of the One Eye," Libor countered, growing animated. "Battle and dominance are the very essence of life!"

"For you, perhaps," Cabrach said. "But we are a peaceful people. Why should we aid you?"

"For the glory that would come with returning _Krvavi Puet_ to one that should rightfully wield it," Libor answered.

"You say that in time, you will turn on us," King Setanta concluded. "Yet you wish us to aid you now?"

"It is only right," Libor said. The stocky elf nearly cried out in rage.

"Why would I help you conquer my people?" King Setanta inquired.

"Great glory will come to you for your actions, both now and in the battles to come."

"But, I do not wish to fight," King Setanta said. Libor gazed blankly at him for a moment. What leader did not wish to show his people's strength through glorious battle? "Glory will not help my people if you destroy our homes and drive us into the mountains or human held lands. Glory will not comfort a mother who weeps for her son slain in battle, or raise a child whose parents have been killed in combat."

Libor could not keep the puzzled look from his face. In almost any of the orcish tribes, death in battle was the highest honor a warrior could achieve, bringing glory both to the mother that weaned him and the child he sired. For a long moment the chieftain hesitated, his argument unraveling.

"What… is it you wish?" he finally asked. King Setanta pondered the question for an interminable time. Cabrach leaned in to his leader for a moment, offering advice, then the stocky elf that was more willing to fight Libor. At last Setanta nodded.

"A treaty of peace," the monarch decided. "That your people will respect the borders of Argent and never enter elven territory with violent intent."

"And leave you free to raid us before fleeing into your forest?" Libor countered, incredulous. Setanta seemed shocked by the remark, glancing to Teirtu in confusion.

"The dullard thinks we have plans to attack him," the general stated derisively. Wenna dropped her face into one hand, hiding her embarrassment. Slowly Libor turned to the general, a growl seeping out between his tusks.

"I have come here in peace," the chieftain declared. "And yet you wish me to fight you. If you wish for Right of Combat, return my spear and I will face you as a true orc. Or do you need the bows of a dozen of your tribe to face me?"

"I would fight you with my bare hands if need be," Teirtu challenged in response, his body practically shaking in eagerness for the fight. "You come here to find weapons to defeat us, and you think we will simply help you like idiots?"

"Enough!" King Setanta exclaimed, his voice suddenly booming through the throne room. The sudden outburst was enough to grab both Teirtu's and Libor's attention from each other. The monarch slowly stepped down from the dais, approaching the two aggressors. "I will not tolerate open combat in my throne room."

"As you wish, my liege," Teirtu hissed, turning a hateful glare to Libor.

"General Teirtu," Setanta began. "I believe the Watch needs your attention, to be certain that they are purporting themselves correctly in the presence of our guests."

Teirtu turned back to his king, eyes going wide.

"My liege?" the general asked in surprise.

"See to the Watch, General," Setanta clarified. "I will send for you presently."

"But… but my liege," Teirtu stammered. King Setanta held up a hand.

"See to the Watch," he repeated, more forcefully this time.

Frustrated and furious, Teirtu spun on his heel and stormed out of the audience hall. For a moment silence reigned as Libor stood in the center of the chamber, hands clenched into fists as he waited for the next move. Setanta watched the chieftain for a moment before pushing a smile onto his face.

"Perhaps we should… take a short time before continuing our negotiations," the monarch suggested. Libor scowled.

"Winter is already upon us," the chieftain stated.

"Then you should enjoy this day to warm yourselves by the fire in your quarters," Setanta offered. "After all, it may be some time before you see the chance to do so once you leave Oakenbough. I will confer with my advisors, for as you have seen, we have not even heard of the spear you seek. Before we go any further, I would like to tell you if we even have it."

Libor growled faintly. The elf was not without duplicity, after all.

"You will have your time," the chieftain grumbled.

* * *

><p>"He's not going to be happy with you."<p>

"I'm not afraid of him," Valtaya said quietly, standing as far from the oaken double doors of the planning room as she could. King Setanta hazarded only the barest glance from the burnished surface of the long, twelve seat table that took up most of the planning room, brightly lit with the chill illumination of the early winter sun. "Teirtu sees fit to comment whenever he feels it is necessary. I should be allowed the same privilege."

Lady Valtaya spoke boldly, but only the most inattentive elf would not see her trepidation. Since the king had dismissed General Teirtu, the young druid had worn a look of anxiety on her face, likely dreading the inevitable storm of rage that would follow the warrior back into the king's chambers. Setanta himself did not look forward to the excitable general's rage, some of which would no doubt be directed at him. For her part, Valtaya had moved as far from Teirtu's path as possible, placing the entire table as well as her new mentor, Cabrach, between herself and the room's doors.

Standing halfway into the room, absently examining maps set across the table as well as the other members of his hastily constructed council, Setanta had a view of all of the other elves that awaited the general's return. Wenna stood almost exactly opposite him, her fading silvery hair tide back more severely than usual as she waited. The light that fell through the clear glass of the windows made her appear somewhat older. The druid had been Caretaker of Ceallai for the entirety of Setanta's reign and then some, a useful counsel when discussing matters of the western reaches. Bricriu, a ranger of no small note and the default leader of all the forces to the north, still wore his hunting leathers and the paint that only the most traditional of the wild northern elves used. He had no connection at all to the line of ancient elven kings; his black hair, glossy and plaited into small braids to keep it from his eyes, marked him as a direct descendent of the wild elves that Setanta's bloodline had folded into Argent so long ago. Caradoc, standing near to the king and fretting with the thick silken belt around his waist, was an exact opposite of Bricriu; impeccably groomed, richly dressed, his emphasis on the eldritch arts rather than the woodlore that his daughter, and indeed many elves, now looked to over long ago faded gods of magic and art.

"Are you well, Lord Caradoc?" King Setanta inquired as the wizard glanced yet again to the doors.

"She picks a fight with Teirtu, of all people!" Caradoc hissed, his sapphire eyes snapping back to the king. "And now, of all times! I never should have let her be a part of this!"

"Perhaps the choice was not yours to make," King Setanta pointed out. "As you yourself have desired for so long, she is finally immersing herself in the affairs of Argent."

"But… to aid an orc, of all things?" Caradoc retorted. "Her mother was killed by the brutes, and now-"

"And now she has managed to put past slights aside to face this challenge, as we all should learn," Setanta interjected. "You told me some time ago, Caradoc, that my own personal bias should not weigh into judgments that affect the Forest."

Caradoc's face flushed with color as the king used his own advice against him.

"Yes, you are right, of course," Caradoc muttered, looking back to his daughter as Valtaya quietly talked with Cabrach. King Setanta followed his gaze, then looked down to the table.

"Would that Druce were still with us," the monarch said quietly. Caradoc nodded.

The doors of the planning hall suddenly burst open, and the storm entered quickly.

"Who do you think you are?" General Teirtu shouted, his furious eyes locked on Valtaya as he practically threw the first of the chairs before him out of his way. "Do you think you're funny, 'Lady' Valtaya?"

"I acted as I thought elves should act," Valtaya countered. The young druid's words were brazen, but even as she spoke she backed up a step, her body trembling with raw nerves. "You evidently thought to act as an orc would act."

"Children should be seen, and not heard," Teirtu growled, moving forward. One hand dropped to the hilt of his sword as he moved. "If your father cannot teach you such manners, I shall do it myself!"

"Try, and you will find your armor and blade rusted and vines growing from every orifice in your body," Cabrach threatened, suddenly in the general's way. The Caretaker's thick, gnarled staff was beneath the general's chin, a faint wisp of vine tickling his throat. "Druce may not be here, but you'll find me challenge enough."

"Enough!" Setanta demanded, slamming a fist down on the table. "Are we elves or orcs?"

Teirtu and Cabrach locked eyes for a long moment, the general seething with rage and the Caretaker evenly meeting his glare. Finally, the general turned to his king.

"As you wish, my liege," Teirtu spat. The monarch could see nothing but hatred in the warrior's eyes. Out of the corner of his sight, Setanta could see Caradoc replace a tiny glass sphere in the sleeve of his robes. The king knew the item well enough; he had seen Caradoc use the weapon against enemies of the elves. The sphere would burst on contact, engulfing the victim in flames. Teirtu likely never knew how close he had come to a fiery end. Valtaya, for her part, had been backed into the corner, her staff held defensively in front of her and a fearful expression on her face.

"This is embarrassing!" Setanta pointed out harshly. "We are supposed to be elves. Not humans, not orcs, and not goblins. Elves! And yet we are ready to kill each other over supposed slights? What has come over you?"

"We are allowing orcs to run freely through our own city!" Teirtu exclaimed.

"We have them in one place!" Setanta countered. "We have them isolated and they are the ones behaving, not us! You have done nothing but provoke them since the moment you saw them! Who is the orc and who is the elf, General Teirtu?"

Teirtu's eyes went wide with outrage, but the shock of the situation stunned him into silence.

"This challenge is unique, and has strained all of us," Cabrach said, his even tone easing a small amount of the tension. He turned to Teirtu. "I know and share the losses you have suffered at the hands of orcs, Teirtu. We all know them. Especially young Valtaya. But you can't let that cloud your judgment. There may be a potential for something other than war in this Libor. Please, Teirtu, talk with us. Give us your counsel, for we will need it. Your counsel, but not your thirst for blood."

Teirtu turned to the Caretaker, fury in his eyes. For a long moment he said nothing, looking from Cabrach to his apprentice behind him, then to Wenna, and finally to Bricriu. At last, the general nodded.

"You will have my counsel," he grumbled.

"It is not easy, I know," Cabrach said. "Come, Teirtu. Embrace me as a brother. Let us put this beyond us."

Teirtu nodded, but his embrace was as stiff and reluctant as his words. The crisis averted for the moment, Setanta looked over his gathered council.

"This Libor asks us for something his people lost long ago," the monarch began. "We must decide what to do about this request."

"If it is a relic of their bloodthirsty god, that is reason enough for me to deny them," Teirtu grumbled, still nursing his injured pride.

"Teirtu is right," Bricriu said. "We have enemies enough without allowing the orcs to unite under one ruler and threaten our south, as well."

"Do we know anything about this spear?" Setanta asked, looking to Caradoc. If anyone was familiar with the old lore, it would be the studious wizard.

"I believe I have heard one or two stories of this… Kerva Pyut," Caradoc answered. He paused, considering his words. "_Krvavi Puet_. It is, as the chieftain said, the spear of their god, the one he was supposed to carry before he became god of all orcs, or something to that effect. Of course, like most legends, the spear carried a shard of the god's power with it, allowing its wielder to be stronger, more capable in combat, and, most importantly to us, a leader of all orcs."

"Is any of this true?" the king asked. Caradoc shrugged.

"How true are any legends?" he asked in reply. "I suppose there's a grain of truth in it, just as in any myth. Perhaps one of them forged a powerful spear long ago, or perhaps there really was a spear wielded by their god and then handed down. It's impossible to tell for sure. It may not even exist any more, if it even existed at all."

"Do we have this spear?" Wenna asked, looking to Caradoc. "Or even a spear that they may have confused with it?"

"If we do, it has been buried by time," Caradoc said. "We have not fought the orcs in earnest for centuries. We all learn legends of the ancient orcish hordes, but my grandfather was one of the last to fight them. He passed to the Mother's embrace quite some time ago."

"We should forget the spear and deal with these orcs while we have the chance," Bricriu said. "This is a chieftain of a powerful tribe. If we kill him, his tribe will fall to infighting and the next several seasons will see the other tribes fight over the scraps. That can only benefit us."

"But they haven't attacked anyone," Valtaya countered, speaking up again. "How can we justify murdering them in cold blood when they came to us in peace?"

"They only came to us in peace to gain a weapon to fight us!" Teirtu retorted sharply. "When will you learn, girl, they would do the same to us!"

"Exactly the reason we shouldn't do it to them!" Valtaya exclaimed. "We aren't orcs! We aren't murderers! We brought them here!"

"The orcs have proven themselves to be our enemies, for many generations," Caradoc said, turning to his daughter. "This Libor makes no attempt to change our perceptions of them."

"That is an understatement," Bricriu added. "This… Libor declares that he will conquer us once he finds the damned spear!"

"Valtaya is correct," Cabrach said, "most unfortunately so. They are here, under our protection. This is not how elves treat any guest, no matter how vile we consider them."

"So we turn them loose to come back and destroy our forest with axe and fire, like they have done to us so many times in the past?" Bricriu countered, incredulous.

"The orcs were not responsible for the fire," Valtaya grumbled. Caradoc shot his daughter a stern warning glance, but Teirtu barely glanced to the young druid. King Setanta found that odd, considering the spring fire had been the origin of their hostile feelings.

"Whether they started one particular fire or not doesn't matter, "Bricriu said, looking to Teirtu for support. The general nodded, but only barely recognized the debate. "They have burned forests, killed and raped our friends, and taken everything they can steal from us. They should be killed!"

"And so we fall upon them like savages in our own home, after bringing them here as guests?" Valtaya argued. "Why bring them here at all? Why not just butcher them in the forest? Why go through this trouble?"

"That's a question for Wenna," Bricriu stated. "If it were me they never would have known we were there before they were dead on the ground."

"Well it wasn't you," Valtaya declared, hobbling forward, gaining courage. This time it was Caradoc's turn to be frustrated and embarrassed. "My liege, we cannot simply kill them here. Turn them away or help them if you must, but we are not murderers!"

"They murdered your family," Bricriu pointed out. Valtaya spun on him.

"_Half_ orcs murdered my family," the young druid corrected him. "Half orc, half human. I did not let that cloud my judgment when two humans helped me fight off the dr-"

"Enough!" Caradoc snapped. Valtaya shrank back, her courage stolen by her father. With his daughter silenced, the wizard looked over the others. "I will back my daughter in this one regard. We cannot butcher them here. As our king has mentioned, we are not orcs, and we cannot allow ourselves to do as they would. But I do not think we should help them, either. By tomorrow I would be able to teleport them back to Ceallai, and the rangers there can lead them, blindfolded if possible, to the edge of Argent. Would this be agreeable?"

Silence fell across the council for a moment. The king looked from one to the other, still finding the odd calm across Teirtu's face.

"I would speak to this Libor," Setanta finally said. Bricriu's mouth dropped open. Teirtu, amazingly, barely flinched.

"Why?" the ranger demanded.

"As Cabrach said, there may be more to this orc than simple war," the monarch explained. "I would speak to him in private."

"My liege, is this wise?" Caradoc asked. Even Valtaya, the orcs' most vocal supporter only in that she would see them leave with their lives, seemed stunned.

"You… you can't mean to… to allow him a chance to kill you," Bricriu stammered.

"I… I don't necessarily agree with Bricriu that he will kill you, but I still don't think this is a wise risk," Wenna added. "Caradoc can take us back to Ceallai and I will see them back to their lands."

"I will speak to him," Setanta said again. "Send for him. I will meet him near the orchards."


	14. Aid, Abandon, or Betray

** XIII**

The fading light of the afternoon was filtering through the bare trees as King Setanta stood on the boundaries of Oakenbough's orchards. A crisp breeze stirred the branches ever so slightly, a herald from the west of the coming winter. The chill wind nipped at Setanta's nose and sensitive pointed ears, reminding him of just how close winter was to the elven forest.

The orchards of Oakenbough, much like the city itself, were hidden in the forest. Tall oaks and thick pines hid the apple and pear trees of the elves, growing over the smaller fruit trees. They were grown randomly instead of in the lines of human farmers, further hiding the presence of civilization. The elves of Argent had long ago learned to live in harmony with nature whenever they could, and the light appetites of elves compared to the other races helped them live on less.

The sound of crunching leaves made the king turn, forgetting the grove as he found his guest striding towards him. Libor Bloody Fist was far larger when viewed from the ground; the hulking orc was as physically imposing as a bear, a full head or more taller and far broader than even the sturdiest elf. Even without his weapons the orcish chieftain appeared as a force to be reckoned with, his fierce amber eyes appraising the far smaller monarch as he advanced on Setanta. For a long moment the chieftain waited for his host to say something, but Setanta remained silent as he appraised the brute.

"Will you still understand me?" the orc finally asked. Setanta nodded.

"I will," the king affirmed. "Lord Caradoc's spells will likely hold for the rest of the day."

Libor nodded, his eyes watching the king with suspicion. Behind him, maybe twenty yards away, two of Teirtu's most capable warriors stood at the ready, but if the orc before him decided to strike violently, Setanta was uncertain if they would be able to stop him in time.

"Why have you brought me here?" Libor finally asked.

"I wanted to speak to you," Setanta answered. "Without the others."

Libor nodded, his distrust still obvious in his tone. He glanced back over his shoulder at the pair of guards.

"I trust that you will remain peaceful as long as we do not attack you," the king explained. "Others, however, do not. My guard is a concession to their concerns."

"You said you wished to speak to me alone," Libor pointed out. Setanta nodded.

"And they will come no closer, and not interfere as long as you do not grow violent," the king replied smoothly. "One of your kind has already grown violent over concerns within your own tribe, while another has shown unhealthy interest in an elf barely out of her adolescence. You have shown restraint, chieftain, but not enough to trust you all."

Libor growled under his breath, his hands balling into fists. Behind the orc, one of Setanta's guards silently reached for his sword.

"No true orc has need of others to fight his battles," Libor stated.

"That may be," Setanta conceded, "but I am no orc, as you can plainly see."

Libor's face remained stoic, but the growl died away and the chieftain's hands relaxed. The elven guard's hand dropped away from his sword just as silently.

"If you will not help us, then we must leave," Libor stated. "I have not come here to discuss anything else."

"Perhaps," Setanta said with a nod, "but you are still here for the night at the very least. Let us discuss why I should help you find a spear that you all but tell me will result in my people's destruction."

Libor paused for a long moment. Perhaps he finally understood the absurdity of his request.

"It is ours by right," the chieftain finally said.

"Is it not ours by right?" Setanta inquired. "After all, we won it in battle, by your very words. And your way is to take by force, is it not?"

"You are no orc," Libor said. Setanta smiled at the attempt to reverse his logic.

"Again, you are correct," the king said. "But you are an orc. And here you are, trying to negotiate with me."

"Because… you are no orc," Libor said. It was difficult, Setanta could tell, but the chieftain was trying to think laterally.

"Why do you want the spear, Libor Bloody Fist?" the king asked.

"To unite my people," Libor said. The simple question energized the orc, as Setanta assumed it would. Like many braggarts, Libor thrilled to speak of his people and his deeds. "To forge an empire for my orcs, one that would put to shame the flat heads of Trzebin and the Unscarred. To have all that the flat heads and unscarred have, and more."

"The unscarred," Setanta echoed. "Us?"

"All who cower rather than fight," Libor clarified. "There is no greater glory than victory in battle, no better way to meet the One Eye than to die in glorious battle."

"And yet, you want what we have," Setanta pointed out. "We are the unscarred, the ones that are beneath you, correct? Why would you want what your inferiors have?"

Libor studied him for a long moment, suspicion welling up in his eyes.

"You are trying to trick me," the chieftain assumed. Setanta shook his head.

"No," Setanta countered. He started through the orchard, Libor following cautiously behind. "General Teirtu and many of my other advisors would tell me that orcs are single minded and stupid. That all they can do is attack each other and everyone around them. I want to know why you have decided to be different. Your very appearance here, speaking with me rather than trying to gut me, means there is something more to you, and possibly your people. I want to know who you are, Libor Bloody Fist. I want to know why you have decided to talk to me. You could have torn the Khairathi Mountains apart, defeating other orcs and the humans of Tourant, but you are here, speaking to an elf, your most hated of enemies."

"I must have _Krvavi Puet_ to unite the orcs," Libor said.

"Why not just fight?" Setanta pressed. Libor paused.

"I… it would not… not help me," the chieftain stuttered.

"You must find a peaceful solution," Setanta assumed.

"No!" Libor snapped, trying to defend his paradoxical beliefs. Behind them, the two guards tensed at the sudden outburst, but the king did not even flinch. Libor also seemed to realize his error, and calmed himself. "Possessing _Krvavi Puet_ will prove that I am chosen by the One Eye to lead my people," the chieftain explained.

"And will they all accept that?" Setanta inquired, knowing what passed for politics in the orcish tribes. Libor growled.

"They will accept that, or they will die," Libor stated. "My strength and fury is what makes me the chosen of the One Eye. None will stand before me."

"And then what?" Setanta asked. Libor narrowed his eyes.

"Then we make glorious war on all," the chieftain answered, equal parts proud and wistful. "We will show all what it is to be an orc, the greatest warriors in the world."

"And when you have defeated all of us, what then?" Setanta asked. "What will you do when there is no one left to attack?"

Libor paused for a long moment. For as much as orcs talked about their battle prowess, none thought to ask what would happen if their savage dreams finally came true. The king waited, but Libor had no words for him.

"Perhaps war is not the end all," Setanta put in, breaking the silence. Libor grew angry once more, but remained silent. "Perhaps there is something more to life than killing."

Libor remained silent. The chieftain was obviously perturbed by the elf's words, but he did not fly into a rage as Setanta had half expected of him. Taking a chance, the king pressed the issue.

"What are you truly after, Libor Bloody Fist?" Setanta inquired.

"The spear of the One Eye," Libor said. Setanta shook his head.

"The spear is only a way to make other orcs see what you want," the monarch corrected him. "What is it that _you_ seek?"

Libor glared at the elf for a long moment.

"To lead my people," the chieftain finally said. "To glorify the One Eye as he should."

Libor paused again, considering his words.

"In Trzebin, I am told they have a grand cathedral to their god, Hextor," he continued. "The god of flat heads and unscarred is glorified in this great cathedral. The One Eye has only Predrag's shrine in Bij… in our home. We, who are strongest, are mocked by the flat heads. The unscarred fear us, but not as they do hobgoblins. This cannot be."

"Perhaps fear is not what you should ask for," King Setanta tried. Libor looked to him. "Fear lasts only as long as you are able to hurt someone. Respect, however… that lasts far longer, and does far more good.

"You think it is good to be respected, not feared," Libor concluded. Setanta nodded. "Respected for strength?"

"Well… perhaps," the king agreed. "But… strength can be more than just skewering one's enemies."

"Strength can be found in… crafting the weapons needed," Libor tried. Setanta gave a half shrug.

"That… I suppose could be," the monarch said. "But perhaps a truer strength could be found in _not_ killing."

Libor studied him for a long moment, his broad, porcine face unreadable. Those amber eyes seemed to be trying to deduce something from the king's stance. As the length of the silence grew, Setanta tried once more.

"Long ago, before the human nations, the elves that lived here were not my ancestors," the monarch began. "We came from the east, from coastal lands. Why, I cannot say, for the reasons have been lost to time. But when we came here, we tried not to fight the wild elves that were already within the boundaries of Argent. We are their rulers, yes, but not because we killed them. We tried to live with them, and we taught each other different ways, different ideas. Now… now we are one."

Libor considered the information, his expression still puzzled.

"You defeated them, but did not kill them," the orc concluded.

"Well… there… there were skirmishes, to be truthful," Setanta admitted. Even now, so long after the high elves had come to Argent, he felt a pang of guilt. "But we… we did not wish to battle," the king added hastily, hoping that his words were not taken the wrong way. "We ended the hostilities as quickly as we could. And we have lived in peace, for the most part, ever since."

Libor remained silent and watchful again, his amber eyes locked on the king before him. Setanta could only hope he could understand; that war was not necessary, was not a thing to be glorified. Finally, the huge orc nodded curtly.

"Perhaps," the chieftain said slowly. The orc looked to the sun then as it disappeared in the west. "I will see to my orcs," Libor said. "I will think on your words."

King Setanta watched Libor as he strode back through the orchards to Oakenbough, uncertain if he had made things better or worse.

* * *

><p>"At least we are not expected to hunt while we are here."<p>

Suljo smirked, but said nothing to answer Zdeno as the huge orc looked over the food that had been delivered to them. A dozen or so apples, some trout likely taken right from the river outside their door, and crystal clear water in a large clay jug was their dinner; hardly appetizing for most orcs, who would have preferred venison or boar to the fish and apples. Suljo took one of the green fruits and took a bite from it, enjoying the tart taste for a long moment.

"No ale, no mead, just water," Vratislav complained. He looked over the food with barely concealed distaste. "No meat. No wonder these elves are so small."

"You can always have some of the salted venison, if you choose," Suljo offered, taking one of the fish for himself. He poured a large cup of water, and settled into his seat on one of the benches around their modest table. Zdeno pried himself out of the bed that he had occupied, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table and dragging a trout to him.

"I thought the elves make wine," Vratislav said, pouring himself a cup. "It would be poor substitute for ale, but it would be better than just water."

"They don't trust us, Vratislav the Boy," Zivadin said, a broad, unfriendly grin on his face as he leaned against the wall next to the door. "They think we will go on a drunken rampage if we take too much drink."

"It is you they don't trust, lunatic," Vratislav countered, glaring at the larger orc. "Desiring a child, one that a true orc would break before he had his pleasure from her."

"Perhaps the pleasure is in the breaking," Zivadin stated. "Did you think of that? Or is it true, that the orcs of the Bloody Fist are denied their rightful plunder?"

"You can keep that plunder," Zdeno said nonchalantly, speaking before Vratislav could continue the argument. "My wives are plunder enough. And my sons… if they were to play with a half breed, I would have a mewling wife and a broken child to deal with. No, Zivadin, you keep your playthings. Female orcs are bad enough without adding human or elven females to the mix."

Zivadin laughed at the remark, but before he could counter the berserker Libor returned to the lodge, pushing aside the curtain and snatching an apple from the table.

"You may take my seat, chieftain," Vratislav said, standing quickly. Libor waved him off irritably, taking a large bite from the apple. For a moment silence reigned over the lodge.

"The elf had nothing good to say," Suljo concluded, watching the chieftain's face as he spoke. Libor looked to him, opened his mouth, but returned to chewing before he said anything.

"Perhaps now it's time to favor spear and axe over words," Zdeno assumed, smiling at the thought of combat. "And not a moment too soon. I have grown bored of talk."

"Suljo," Libor said. The scout looked to him, but the chieftain's answer was nothing more than to step back through the curtained doorway. Zdeno's good mood ended as he looked after his leader. Without anything to say to the apparent summons, Suljo shrugged, wiped the scraps of fish from his studded leather tunic, and followed Libor out of the shelter.

"Again he turns to that scout for counsel," Suljo heard as he ducked out of the lodge. He put it out of his mind as he watched Libor slowly walking to the edge of the river, his breath steaming up in the light of the moon as he studied the water. Slowly Suljo followed him, a single glance over his shoulder confirming that Zdeno was not watching at the door.

"The elf had nothing good to say," Suljo repeated, joining the chieftain by the water's edge. Across the water, the scout could see Kinain, bundled in his cloak and resting in the lowest branches of an oak, well hidden and, more importantly, out of earshot. Libor's eyes remained fixed on the water.

"These elves are not like us," the chieftain finally declared. Suljo could not hold back a chuckle.

"A fact that we were only just discussing with the exile," the scout explained lightly. Libor did not seem to share his mirth.

"He speaks of winning without fighting," the chieftain continued. He looked around at the trees and the last of the elves above them, making their way to their homes in the branches of the trees. "The king says his people are not from here, and that they… conquered other elves, that were already here."

"I have noticed differences," Suljo said. "Hair color especially, but other things as well. Clothing, weapons, and the like."

"What does this mean?" Libor asked. Suljo considered the question for a long moment.

"They have… defeated another tribe," the scout finally tried. "Like your victory over the Cold Spear, perhaps. Perhaps this is a better way? To preserve strength?"

"Is this what they believe?" Libor asked, finally turning to the scout. "Is he telling me that we are to conquer them, but leave them whole?"

"I do not think the elves wish to be conquered at all," Suljo replied. Libor nodded, looking back to the river.

"But if they were, they would prefer this… the way they conquered their own?" the chieftain assumed. "Without blood? As we… I took the Cold Spear?"

Suljo shrugged.

"As I said," the scout started, "they do not wish to be conquered in any way."

Libor nodded again, his eyes unfocused. Across the river, Kinain shifted in his tree, no doubt cold in the growing winds of winter.

"They will not help us," the chieftain said at last. It was no question.

"That… is possible," Suljo said. Libor nodded, the weariness evident in his profile.

"Predrag warned me that it would not be easy," he said quietly. "I thought to come and ask, and they would answer."

"Perhaps they… will see some value in helping us," Suljo tried. It was a weak attempt, at best; no elf would give an orc a weapon which he fully intended to use against them. Libor shook his head fretfully.

"I must find another way," the chieftain said. "But I cannot offer them this peace they desire. It is not the One Eye's way."

"You could lie to them," Suljo suggested, though the idea sat ill in his own mind. "Offer them peace, and then make war on them later."

"Flat heads and unscarred lie," Libor said. "Not me."

"As I had thought," Suljo said. For a long moment the two remained silent.

"Perhaps Zdeno could fight their champion for the spear," Libor said, though he sounded less than confident in the idea.

"Their Teirtu would jump at the idea," Suljo said. "The others… I don't know."

Libor sighed deeply, shaking his head again.

"It cannot end this way," he said.

"Perhaps it will not," Suljo said. "Come inside and eat. We can do nothing until the sun rises again. Perhaps the One Eye will see us, and send some help."

* * *

><p>It had been a long day, that much was certain. He would be happy when he was finally able to return to his family.<p>

"I would have thought you of all people would have been a help."

That, of course, would have to wait for just a short time longer.

"I had expected you sooner, Bricriu," Teirtu said, gazing off the highest walkway that spanned the River Embléz between the King's Oak and the pair of similarly large oaks that dominated the west bank of the river. Beneath him, the water churned by, bubbling in the rising moonlight or beginning to form delicate crusts of ice on the rocky banks.

"One threat from a druid and you turn tail and run," Bricriu continued, ignoring the general's greeting. "That isn't the Teirtu I know."

"The council seems bent on letting the orcs go," Teirtu noted, still leaning over the thin railing of the walkway. He took a moment, enjoying the cold night. Above him, clouds began to move in from the west; winter was coming early this year. Perhaps it would swallow the orcs before they could find their silly spear.

"And we have to make them see!" Bricriu protested. "They'll let this Libor go, and he will come back to destroy us for not being foolish enough to help him!"

"That is possible," Teirtu agreed, his voice distant. He studied the current below him for a long moment.

"We have both fought orcs before," Bricriu said when the general remained silent. "We both know that they are dangerous opponents. Maybe they're better than goblins. At least we always know what to expect from orcs, and how to fight them. But we can't let them go free to come back with more of their kind!"

Teirtu continued to gaze into the river in silence. For so long he had dedicated his life to defending Argent from any threat. The humans of Tourant and Mardan, the dwarves of Arnheim, the goblins of Trzebin, and the orcs of the southern Khairathis. He could never admit to anyone that he at least respected the orcs for their straightforward attitude. Goblins, humans, even dwarves would lie, creeping into lands the elves held and stealing what they could behind curtains of false friendship. The orcs would kill, plunder, and rape. But somehow, he found them slightly less disgusting. If nothing else, they were too stupid to be devious.

It made his idea both more brilliant and repugnant at the same time.

"No, we cannot," the general agreed, finally looking up from the water. His tone was even, low, almost conspiratorial. Bricriu was an expert warrior and one of the best rangers in all of Argent, but he was notoriously slow to pick up on the nuances of intrigue. It was the bane of most of the so called "wild" elves of Argent, those that had inhabited Argent before even the silvery haired "high" elves that now ruled. Teirtu had been one of the few of his sylvan kind to move to a position of power; many of his jet haired kin lived away from Oakenbough, leaving the affairs of state, as King Setanta and Lord Caradoc called it, to their noble brethren. Bricriu, for his part, studied the general for a long moment, curiosity overcoming his hostility.

"You… have some kind of plan?" the ranger deduced. Teirtu finally stood up straight, turning fully to his companion.

"There are orcs to the northwest," the general said. "This is true?"

"Orcs… no, I don't…" Bricriu hesitated, thinking.

"Far to the northwest," Teirtu clarified. "In the mountains."

"Yes… yes, I remember now," Bricriu said. "They live underground, in the lower mountains. Shunned even by their own kind."

"The Rotfeast," Teirtu concluded. "They are a threat to your home, Arras."

"Yes," Bricriu said. "Though we have not seen them in some decades. Perhaps they have died out."

"Perhaps our friend Libor Bloody fist could be certain of that for us," Teirtu suggested. Bricriu narrowed his eyes.

"You mean to send him on an errand for us?" the ranger asked. Teirtu shook his head.

"_Krvavi Puet_ is an orcish weapon," Teirtu pointed out. "Who is to say that one tribe of orcs or another took it back?"

"Is… is this true?" Bricriu asked, confused. Teirtu smiled faintly in the moonlight.

"Bricriu, you are one of the best scouts I know," the general said. "Probably even better than Fife was. But you have no head for intrigue."

"The curse of our kind," Bricriu said sarcastically. "I do not play these games, Teirtu. You know that."

"You will this time, if you wish to see Libor Bloody Fist perish on the spear of another orc," Teirtu countered. "Standing in that council, I knew that the others would not understand what we know. No orc will hold a peace treaty. No orc will submit to a life without warfare. But Setanta, he may believe that they might, under this Libor. Valtaya clings to some notion that we should be better than them, likely because of our past disagreements. Her father, court jester that he is, will back her up to compromise between her and me. No, Bricriu, we will not be allowed to just kill them. But if we plant the seed that these Rotfeast orcs have the spear… you know that any orc considers another orc to be his most worthy adversary."

"Have Libor and the Rotfeast kill each other," Bricriu concluded.

"And the Bloody Fist tribe may fall into chaos as well, without their leader," Teirtu added. "All gains for Argent."

"And how will we make Libor think the Rotfeast have this spear?" Bricriu inquired. "If Lord Caradoc or King Setanta say they do not know where the spear is, how will we convince the orcs to try looking there?"

"We convince Caradoc that the spear is there," Teirtu answered.

"Have him lie?" Bricriu said. Teirtu nodded.

"For the sake of Argent."

* * *

><p>"I was hoping to talk to you."<p>

"To… me?" Valtaya asked, stunned. "My… my liege, you… to me?"

"Well, yes," Setanta reiterated, smiling at the young druid's surprise. "You are a member of my council, no less than Teirtu or your father."

"I… am beginning to see that," Valtaya said, regaining her composure. "I am honored that you would consider me."

"You have a unique perspective on this situation, I should think," Setanta began, looking down from the tallest walkways of the King's Tree to the elves below. The great oaks of the elven capitol were still clinging stubbornly to their dead leaves, providing some cover to the dwellings below. "You have a background in both arcane magic and druidic lore, you have traveled the western forests and the scar as well, and you are younger than anyone else in the council. That is more important than anything else."

"I somehow doubt that," Valtaya said. She smiled slightly, a not quite embarrassed gesture. "Even Druce told me the wisdom of age."

"I don't doubt that," Setanta agreed. He paused for a long moment; a faint cloud of sorrow had come over the young druid. "We all miss him, Valtaya. Cabrach is capable, wise, and strong, but I know the bond you shared with Druce."

Valtaya nodded, wiping a tear from her eye.

"He was as much a father to me as Lord Caradoc," the druid said. She sniffled, then stood upright and forced her grief behind her. "I am sorry, my liege. You asked for my… my counsel."

Setanta smiled, looking back over Oakenbough.

"What do you think of our guests?" he inquired simply. Valtaya hesitated.

"They… are not my favorite people," the druid replied.

"Did Druce teach you to guard your answers so carefully?" Setanta asked. "Or is that from your father?"

"I… apologize," Valtaya said. She followed the king's line of sight down through the trees, but her gaze settled quickly on the wisp of smoke coming from the small lodge where the orcs had been quartered. "I do not trust them," she finally said. "My father thinks me naïve, Teirtu thinks me weak, but I can plainly see the threat of these orcs."

"And what is their threat?" Setanta pressed. Valtaya turned to him, searching for something in his eyes.

"They are orcs," she said. "They are not our friends."

"This is true," Setanta agreed. He looked back down to the base of the great oak. "So we should kill them?"

"No!" Valtaya countered quickly. She took a moment, trying to calm herself before continuing. "We cannot simply butcher them here, as Teirtu would have us do. He does not understand, to do so makes us no better than them, no better than the humans or the dwarves or… or our other enemies."

"Other enemies?" Setanta inquired. Valtaya watched him, suspicious.

"The drow," she said. "The dark elves that I have seen with my own eyes. They exist, my liege. They are the ones behind the fire, not these orcs!"

Setanta nodded slowly.

"General Teirtu tells me it was hobgoblins," the king said. "Others say it was these very orcs. After all, they were found in the scar."

"I was there!" Valtaya exclaimed. "They crippled me! I will always limp because of Cadwared! But all I am told is that they cannot exist, because then we would be made to look weak! But if we murder guests that we have invited to our very homes, how much better are we than our so called fabled enemies? We may as well join them in their caves!"

"And this is what you fear," Setanta concluded. "You have seen the absolute worst that our kind can be."

"I… my liege, I can only offer you this," Valtaya said, looking away. "Turn them away. Return them to their mountains. Help them, if you think this Libor Bloody Fist deserves it. But… do not make us that which we will not even speak of. They are evil… you cannot imagine…"

Valtaya trailed off, the pains of her ordeal overtaking her. She turned away from the king, bracing herself on the railing of the walkway. Setanta took a step closer to her, resting a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.

"They are long since vanished, back into their tunnels," Setanta said. Valtaya shook her head as she turned back to her king.

"I… I do not fear them because of what they could do to me," the druid explained. "I fear them because Teirtu is closer to them than he is to me. He would have us kill all who entered our forest, would deny the good that the humans did in aiding us. He would butcher dwarves, elves, orcs and goblins without care for what they have or have not done. How many of us think this way?"

Setanta said nothing for a long moment, considering the young druid's words. She was right, though it was tough to admit, even to himself. Teirtu was not the only elf with a thirst for blood. How many of his rangers and scouts had killed before they had even asked the intentions of those that stumbled into Argent's borders? How many times had Tourant or Mardan, or even Arnheim, been rebuffed by the elven councils before they could even present terms of peace or agreements? The thoughts were troubling to him, but for the moment he would have to concentrate on the Bloody Fist and his orcs.

"I understand your fears, Valtaya," Setanta said. "But suppose we let these orcs go free, whether we help them or not, and then they return with more of their kind. Would we not simply feed Teirtu's fears?"

"We…" Valtaya paused, knowing the truth behind it. If Libor and his orcs returned to make war on Argent, the general would only feel justified in his call for their deaths. The young druid, however, shook her head. "We must let them go. We cannot murder in cold blood. It makes us no better than the orcs, or worse, the drow."

Setanta nodded.

"I will speak with some of the others," he said. "But I feel your counsel is the one I shall take."

* * *

><p>Battle was far easier. All one had to do was charge, and let momentum do the rest. He had no idea what he would face, however, as the door to Setanta's pet wizard's home opened. For a moment Lord Caradoc stared blankly at the armored elf in front of him, but then blinked and remembered his courtesies.<p>

"General Teirtu," the wizard said, equal parts surprised and hostile. "To what do I owe this honor? Especially at this hour of the night?"

"I would speak with you on matters of some urgency," Teirtu replied, keeping any enmity from his voice. "If you would permit me to enter?"

Caradoc studied the armored elf in his doorway for a moment, but finally moved aside.

"Come in," the wizard said. Teirtu gave a stiff nod, then stepped inside.

The interior of Caradoc's home seemed far larger than the outside would have indicated. On the far end of the foyer, a small staircase spiraled up to a huge loft, partially grown from the great oak and partially constructed of planks so well shaped and placed that the artificial additions were barely noticeable from the outside. A second staircase wound down to a level below them, but in the light of the moon that came in through the windows set high in the roof nothing could be seen beyond a few feet. Teirtu paused in the entryway for a long moment, drinking in his surroundings. He had known Caradoc for well over a century, but had never set foot inside his home.

"I am quite busy," Caradoc prompted. Teirtu dragged his eyes away from the cushioned sofas in the foyer.

"Searching for clues as to the whereabouts of _Krvavi Puet_?" the general inquired. The wizard narrowed his eyes.

"It might be," he answered, suspicious. Teirtu nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. Slowly the general started into the foyer, his attention drawn to a majestic statue of an elf holding a long bow, carved from a solid block of cherry.

"And how does that search proceed?" he asked, studying the carving for a long moment.

"Slowly," Caradoc replied. "Tediously. And I have many more hours of research ahead of me."

"I was never all that fond of books," Teirtu confessed. "I suppose it is not in the wild blood to read so much as you."

"We have never been friends, Teirtu," Caradoc said. "Do not treat me like a fool. You are here for a purpose."

"Do you think you'll find this _Krvavi Puet_?" Teirtu inquired.

"Your reasons, Teirtu," Caradoc stated. Teirtu nodded, folding his arms across his mithril breastplate.

"What do you think of our guests?" the general inquired.

"I think they are beasts," Caradoc answered, a note of impatience in his voice.

"As do I," Teirtu said. "A thing we can agree upon, then."

"Yes, we have found common ground," Caradoc agreed.

"Perhaps we can also agree that we should strike them down, while we have the chance," Teirtu pressed. Caradoc shook his head, a cold smirk beginning to form.

"I should have known," the wizard said. "What is it you wish, Teirtu? Should I fireball them, or simply cast a charm to provoke them to battle?"

"I doubt a charm would be needed," Teirtu said.

"Either way, you will not have it," Caradoc said, answering his own question. "The orcs are under the king's protection, and I doubt he will like us trying to goad them into a fight."

Teirtu studied the wizard for a long moment.

"Yes," he admitted. "Your daughter has seen to that."

"And she is right," Caradoc added, somewhat reluctantly.

"You do not agree with the Lady Valtaya?" Teirtu inquired.

"She is right," Caradoc said again. "We have brought these orcs here, under our protection. To kill them now…"

"Would seem uncivilized," Teirtu finished. Caradoc sighed.

"We cannot invite them in, and then kill them," the wizard stated. Teirtu nodded, frowning as he turned back to the cherry wood statue.

"Who is this again?" he queried. Caradoc looked up.

"Corellon Larethian," the wizard replied. "Father of the elves, protector of elvenkind."

"Would he let the orcs go?" Teirtu asked.

"You don't believe in him," Caradoc pointed out, evading the question. Teirtu smiled.

"What if there was a way to make this Libor useful to us?" the general inquired. "What if Libor Bloody Fist could help Corellon Larethian protect elvenkind?"

"What do you mean?" Caradoc asked, growing suspicious. Teirtu examined the intricate carving closely, nodding in appreciation at the craftsmanship.

"To the northwest, there are other orcs," the general explained as he regarded the carving. "They are called the Rotfeast Orcs. Shunned even by their own kind, they live in caves under the jagged peaks, and from time to time they threaten the boundaries of Argent. Bricriu says he has not seen them for some time, but with any who dwell below ground, they could simply be hiding, waiting for a time to strike."

"And what would Libor Bloody Fist do to help us with these Rotfeast orcs?" Caradoc asked.

"Why, he would attack them, of course," Teirtu explained. "He would strike them down in their caves, all for his precious _Krvavi Puet_."

"And then we would give him his spear?" Caradoc asked. "Even if we don't have it?"

"He would travel to the Rotfeast thinking that they have the spear," Teirtu clarified. "For your tireless research has turned up some evidence that the spear might just be with those orcs, locked away beneath the mountains."

"_I_ have turned up some evidence?" Caradoc repeated. "You would have me lie to the king?"

"I would have you see what you will in what you can find," Teirtu amended. "I would have you think of what your Corellon Larethian would do to keep the forest of Argent and its elves safe from the orcs howling on the boundaries. If Libor and the Rotfeast destroy each other, it only strengthens Argent! You must see that!"

"It is still a lie!" Caradoc retorted. "What if Libor finds no spear, and returns to us?"

"The hope, of course, is that he does not return," Teirtu explained. Caradoc's face darkened.

"Lie to the king yourself," the wizard said.

"It would not be believable from me," Teirtu pointed out. "You are the researcher, Caradoc. Not me."

"Get out," Caradoc ordered. Teirtu examined the wizard for a long moment. "Get out, Teirtu. Now."

"Think on my words, Caradoc," the general said, finally turning to the door. "Think on them well. It would be a shame if Argent burned because you did not protect them. What would your Corellon think of that?"


	15. A New Path

** XIV**

"You sleep little."

"I sleep when I can," Kinain responded, looking down at Suljo as the orc stood beneath his tree. The elf's nightly vigils over their guests were not exactly a secret, but the scout was the only one of the orcs that seemed to be aware of his presence. "And you? Why do you not sleep?"

"I have slept all I care to," Suljo explained. He looked to the east, where the sky was just beginning to brighten. "It will be dawn soon. Your king will call upon the Bloody Fist again."

"He will," Kinain agreed. For a long time the two remained silent, the orc standing at the foot of the tree and Kinain on his low branch. Suljo watched the sky a moment more, then studied the tree just below the ranger's branch.

Kinain slid out of the branches slowly, dropping quietly to the ground in front of his orcish counterpart. Suljo's tusked lips almost seemed to show a smile in the darkness, although it could have been a trick of the shadows cast by the fire.

"You have been sent to watch us," the orc assumed. "Come watch from the fire. The nights are growing colder, and Zivadin is well asleep. He will be no threat."

"And you?" Kinain asked. The others might have taken such a question as an insult or challenge, but this time Suljo definitely smiled.

"Some other time, that may be so," the orc stated. "But tonight, we share the same fire."

Kinain nodded, certainly thankful of the chance to share the last embers of the orcs' fire rather than remain in the tree. Other elves had been posted to watch the orcish delegation, to be certain, but Kinain had taken it upon himself, as the one who had brought them here, to be their constant shadow.

The elf regarded Suljo again as the quiet orc found a few last branches to build up the fire against the predawn chill. This odd orc had invited him to share the fire, but so far said nothing. Kinain somehow doubted it was simple kindness; he had noted a curiosity about the world in Suljo that seemed absent in their single minded chieftain or any of the others. As he built the fire, the orc's amber eyes turned back to the elf.

"Do you have… mates?" Suljo inquired at last. Kinain furrowed his brow for a moment.

"Mates," he echoed. "You mean… a wife?"

"Wife," Suljo said, testing the word. "Yes, I think this is the word. Wife."

"No," Kinain answered, a smile coming to his face. "Not yet. Perhaps soon, though."

"You… must prove yourself," Suljo concluded. Kinain chuckled.

"That is one way of saying it," the elf said. "Gwyna has… a mind of her own, that is for certain."

Suljo seemed puzzled by Kinain's remark, but said nothing more.

"And you?" the elf asked, before the silence could lengthen. "Do you have a wife?"

"I only had one," Suljo explained. "She died, two winters ago. She would have given me three children at once, if she had lived long enough. Old Srecko saw it as a bad omen."

"I'm… sorry," Kinain said. Suljo turned a resigned smile on the elf.

"It is no matter," the orc said. "Scouts must do more to prove themselves for wives, and Nevanka was not a choice wife."

"Oh," Kinain said, uncertain how to take Suljo's reply. Again the two lapsed into silence. Kinain took the time to wonder about the odd orc sharing the fire, but it was some time until he could ask anything else of his companion.

"You are very different from the others," the elf remarked at last. Suljo smirked, a somewhat hostile look because of the tusks, but said nothing. "You have no enmity toward me, or any of my kind."

"Enmity?" the orc asked, uncertain of the word.

"You do not dislike us," Kinain clarified. Suljo shrugged.

"There is no reason," the scout explained. "I do not know you to dislike you."

Kinain paused for a moment, but had to laugh.

"Would that more thought that way," the elf said. "How many fewer wars there would be."

"Not many," Suljo said, missing the humor and the point. "You fight to know."

"Or talk," Kinain suggested. "As we do now."

"Yes," Suljo said, agreeing. "I do know you now."

"And do you dislike me?" Kinain asked.

"No," Suljo answered. "You are as all. You want a female. You want recognition."

"Something like that," Kinain agreed, smirking as he went back to warming himself. Suljo smiled for a moment as well, but his good humor died as he watched the flames.

"After today, we will be enemies again," the orc said quietly. The simple statement destroyed Kinain's cheer.

"It… doesn't have to be that way," Kinain tried, though he doubted such a thing was true.

"It will be," Suljo said. He looked up from the fire. "I would be honored to fight you in glorious battle."

"I will hope it doesn't come to that," Kinain said, uncertain if such a statement was a threat or compliment. Suljo, for his part, chuckled and nodded.

"Take your rest, Kinain," the orc said. "Soon your king will send for us. Other elves watch, and Zivadin and the others will remain asleep now."

"I will," Kinain said. He paused. "I would rather meet you again as a friend, rather than an enemy, Suljo."

"Perhaps in the One Eye's feast halls," Suljo suggested wistfully. He extended his hand. "Strength and fury."

"May the wind speed your travels," Kinain countered, clasping the orc's wrist.

* * *

><p>"Gather your weapons. We leave."<p>

"Leave?" Zdeno echoed, sitting up from the bunk that barely contained him. Libor nodded curtly. "They did not tell you where _Krvavi Puet_ is?"

"They do not know," Libor said, snatching up his pack from its place near his bed. He wanted nothing more than to be done with the elves and continue his search.

"Or they did not tell you," Zivadin added, making no move to prepare himself for the journey. "They are elves, and they fear us. Of course they would not tell you."

"Prepare yourself," Libor growled, barely turning to the exile. He had little need of Zivadin's needling, not after the veiled threats leveled by Teirtu and his tattooed ally in the elven court. King Setanta had promised to return the orcs to the scar where they had been found, but such a promise made the chieftain feel as though Bricriu and his rangers would be waiting at the other end of the wizard's spell with arrows nocked. "We leave as soon as we are able."

"We should make an example of them," Zdeno said. "Let me fight them, Libor, and I will force them to tell you where _Krvavi Puet_ is!"

"Killing elves will only be our end," Suljo put in. "They asked too many times what _Krvavi Puet_ is. They do not have it any longer, if they had it in the first place."

"What good is the counsel of a scout?" Zdeno jeered, turning to Suljo.

"Scouts find things," the Flayed Skull orc pointed out. An edge had even come to the pragmatic orc's voice. "If you want to find the spear, you'll stop looking here."

"Suljo is right," Libor said. He had no time, or patience, to spare Zdeno's feelings, not now. The world had crashed down on the chieftain over the past day; he had little idea where to search once the elves denied any knowledge of the mythical weapon. Lost and confused, he had no patience for vendettas or tribal grudges. "Gather your weapons, I said. We leave."

Zdeno snarled at Suljo, but thankfully the berserker sullenly began to organize his sleeping furs and cloaks. As the others quickly packed, Libor left the small lodge and walked back into the bright morning sun, looking up to the rise where they had first arrived.

Lord Caradoc was already at the circle of stones, his dark robes a rich black against the washed out browns and grays of the winter forest. The elven wizard seemed all too eager to rid himself of the orcs, but Libor did not blame him for such a thing. He only wished there had been some way to make the wizard help them in their quest.

Without waiting for the others, Libor shouldered his spear and started up to the stone circle. As he reached the wizard, Caradoc gave him a glance as cold as the morning chill.

"They will be ready soon," Libor stated. Caradoc nodded, but said nothing more. He simply turned to the river to their west, watching the current as it swept away the ice formed overnight.

The others were not far behind; Zdeno and Vratislav clambered up to the circle, their gear mostly packed, while Suljo picked his way more carefully along the rocks with his pack and bow. Zivadin came last, but the exile carried virtually nothing other than his sword and a sleeping fur. Even in the wintry morning, the orc went bare chested. As Zivadin stepped into the stone circle, Caradoc nodded curtly, and within moments he had cast his spell.

The wave of vertigo seemed to pass more quickly this time, but the view that greeted Libor as his sight returned was not one he expected. The pines in the area were thin and scraggly, the laurels that covered the rocky slopes clinging stubbornly to their leaves. Beyond them, a small stream picked its way through the stony ground, flowing down an easily noticeable slope. The chieftain turned back to Caradoc.

"This is not the place you were to send us," Libor pointed out, his eyes narrowing. Zdeno and Vratislav turned to the elf as well as they heard the suspicion in their leader's voice.

"No," Caradoc answered. "You are north of the fire scar."

"Why?" Libor asked. Suljo scanned the horizon, unslinging his bow, but Zivadin seemed unfazed by change of location.

"To the northwest are caves," Caradoc explained. "They are, or were, the home of a clan of orcs. The Rotfeast, they called themselves. They are inbred, conniving monsters who practice disgusting rites in the darkness. They are even shunned by other orcs."

"Why are you telling me this?" Libor asked.

"Perhaps your spear is with them," Caradoc said in reply. Libor studied the elf for a long moment, but Caradoc's face remained cold and unreadable.

"You do not like us," Libor observed. "Why help us now, after your king told us we would receive none?"

Caradoc glared at the chieftain for a long moment, but finally his lips curled up in a cold smile.

"Help you?" the wizard said. "What makes you think I'm helping you? It is my firm desire, orc, that you perish after taking several of the Rotfeast with you."

"Show some respect, weakling!" Vratislav demanded. Zdeno shoved the younger orc back before he could reach Libor and the elf.

"You are trying to kill us," the berserker concluded. Caradoc shrugged.

"At least I have told you of my plans," the wizard countered with false humor. He quickly grew serious again. "Go south, and return to your homes. Or go north, and take your chances with the Rotfeast. It is nothing to me."

Caradoc turned from the orcs without another word, striding down the slope. As he did so, he winked out of sight, leaving his charges alone in the forest.

"A grave decision," Zivadin said, a note of mirth to his voice. "Trust the elf, or go home. What will it be, great chieftain?"

"He is trying to set a trap for us," Vratislav said. "He cannot be trusted."

"At least he told us of his trap first," Suljo remarked.

"I say go," Zdeno said. "I am tired of walking and talking. Let us fight!"

"Fighting the Rotfeast will gain us nothing if they don't have _Krvavi Puet_," Suljo cautioned.

"Spoken like a scout," Zdeno said derisively. "Cower if you like, Flayed Skull. The orcs of the Bloody Fist are true warriors!"

"Suljo," Libor said quietly. The scout turned from Zdeno. "You have traveled these mountains. What do you think of this?"

Suljo thought for a moment. Behind him, Zdeno's face twisted in silent fury.

"I have never heard of these Rotfeast orcs," the scout said. "I am wary of any help from the elves. Especially that one."

"As am I," Libor agreed. Zdeno's knuckles went white on the haft of his axe.

"They eat their dead," Zivadin said. "They replace their own bodies with pieces of their fallen enemies."

"You know these orcs?" Libor asked, turning to the exile. Zivadin laughed.

"The Earth speaks to me of these rotted souls," he explained. "Perhaps the Earth does not tell you quite so much as you claim, great chieftain!"

"Does the earth whisper of _Krvavi Puet_?" Libor demanded. Zivadin chortled, a maniacal sound.

"Suddenly I am valuable again!" the lunatic exclaimed. He turned a frightening smile on the chieftain. "I will tell you all I know of these Rotfeast, great chieftain," Zivadin said. "But we must come south again. And when we do, I want the elf maid, Ceithlenn."

"You'll talk now, lunatic!" Zdeno threatened, baring his axe. The berserker was desperate for battle, and Zivadin was no friend of his.

"We will battle, Zdeno the Fat," Zivadin promised. "But kill me now, and you doom your great chieftain's efforts. What do you say to that, you fat fool?"

"I say we don't need your help!" Zdeno roared. He swung back his axe, but Libor caught the weapon before the berserker could bring it forward.

"Enough!" the chieftain roared. Zdeno snarled in rage, but finally lowered his axe. Libor turned to Zivadin. "Your fixation on this elf does none of us any good," he growled. "Put her behind you."

"Then put your interest in the Rotfeast behind you, and walk home," Zivadin said, crossing his arms across his bare chest. "Kill me, or let your fat dog do it. It will gain you nothing. Grant me my spoils, and I will grant you all I know of the Rotfeast."

Libor snarled. He leaned forward, trying to overwhelm the exile, but the insane were more difficult to control than any other orc.

"You will have your elf, if the time ever comes," the chieftain finally promised. It was a sour taste in his mouth, but he needed Zivadin's knowledge and strength. "But our purpose is the spear, not the child."

Zivadin smiled broadly.

"I can wait," the lunatic said smugly.

* * *

><p>The day had passed quickly as they traveled to the northwest. The rocky terrain made the going difficult, but the rough ground had been the least of Libor's problems as he climbed the mountainsides that led to the supposed home of the Rotfeast orcs.<p>

A bitter cold had descended on the land as they traveled, and Suljo had counseled making camp early. The scout's idea had turned out to be a boon; they had camped along a tiny creek that had covered over with ice, but the crust had been easy to break and the water was cold and pure. Suljo had easily found enough dead pine to make a roaring fire, partially shielded among the rocky outcroppings of the mountainside. The scout even felled a small deer that wandered too close to the camp, giving the group fresh meat and new provisions. The scout had earned his sleep for the night; he had curled up silently beneath the outcropping, buried beneath his furs until only his snout and tusks protruded. The others had followed suit quickly; Vratislav had fallen asleep against the stone, his spear still in hand, while Zivadin had pushed himself as far into the outcropping as he could before using his scant sleeping furs as a screen against the cold. Only Zdeno remained awake, his eyes glittering as they remained locked on the fire.

"You should sleep," Libor said quietly, looking to his oldest friend. Zdeno remained fixed on the fire.

"Did your pet scout suggest that to you?" the berserker asked harshly.

"No," Libor answered. "I am able to see such things with my own eyes."

"Perhaps you should have asked his counsel, first," Zdeno muttered.

"You do not like him," Libor said. The berserker looked up, his features growing hard.

"He is our enemy," he snarled, casting a hateful glance at the furs where Suljo slept. "He is the Flayed Skull, and yet you take him in as a brother!"

"He is valuable," Libor said. "His woodlore and hunting have kept us fed and warm at night. You have had no problems helping yourself to his kills."

"He is a scout!" Zdeno challenged. "That is his job, to hunt for the warriors! But you would turn to him for everything! Over me!"

"You are upset because I ask his counsel," Libor concluded.

"I have been with you since our Year of Trial!" Zdeno exclaimed. "I have fought with you, raided with you, won battles for you! But this… this scout take precedence over me! He is not even of our tribe!"

"All orcs would be my tribe," Libor stated.

"And you would cast me aside for… that?" Zdeno pressed with an angry wave of his hand to the scout. Libor said nothing. "I thought when we left, that I would be your war chief," the berserker continued. "I did not think I would be cast aside for one that makes his own arrows! Will you cast me aside for the lunatic next?"

Libor spent a long moment, reigning in his anger. Zdeno glared at him, waiting for an explanation.

"You are a great warrior, Zdeno," the chieftain began. All orcs wished to hear of their prowess in battle; it would salve the berserker's wounded pride. "Your strength and fury are unmatched on the battlefield."

"But that is not enough for you, Libor," Zdeno growled.

"The One Eye has sent us Suljo," Libor explained. "And even Zivadin, though the exile is as dangerous as he is useful. We are warriors, Zdeno. Mighty, powerful, unstoppable together. But we do not understand all that we need to find _Krvavi Puet_."

"Strength and fury make an orc," Zdeno countered. Libor shook his head.

"When I decided to find _Krvavi Puet_, I sought counsel from Predrag," the chieftain began. "He told me to always see what is around me, for the One Eye's greatest mistake was in refusing to see that which was plainly before him. To see I must have eyes. Zivadin and Suljo are my eyes, just as you, Zdeno, are my fury and strength."

Zdeno glowered at his chieftain, but said nothing.

"I need you, Zdeno," Libor continued. "I cannot do this without you. But I know to ask counsel on elves from a scout who has dealt with them, counsel on strange orcs from a lunatic that has dealt with them, and I know to ask counsel on matters of war from my war chief."

"War chief?" Zdeno repeated quietly. Libor nodded.

"Ondrej has served me well these past three years," the chieftain said. "He, like you, has stood by me since our Year of Trial. But I know him. He will never return the tribe to me, not while he lives."

"You will kill Ondrej?" Zdeno assumed.

"I do not wish to," Libor said. "But the Single Tusk and his allies have poisoned him against me. Ondrej will never yield to me. I must kill him. Afterward, I will choose another war chief."

Zdeno said nothing, but his anger had faded into pride.

"It is an honor," Libor stated, "but do not think you will have your position as long as I live. You must prove yourself. To me, and to all orcs. You have led great raids, and your war party is well known even among our enemies. I will expect all that of you, and far more. Some day we will lead thousands of orcs into glorious battle against the flat heads and unscarred."

"I… will do all you ask of me," Zdeno managed.

"Your pride is restored," Libor said. "You will no longer concern yourself with what I ask the scout?"

"Battle for me, crone's wisdom for him," Zdeno said. Libor chuffed at the remark, but nodded nonetheless.

"Remember what I have said," the chieftain told him. "All of it. If you fail, I will replace you."

"You will have no greater war chief," Zdeno promised.

* * *

><p>"Tell me what you know, exile."<p>

Zivadin smiled broadly, thrilled with his newfound importance. Suljo turned away from the spectacle; the exile had hoarded his knowledge through an entire day and night, stating that the earth would whisper what they needed to know to him in his dreams during the night. Now, with the morning's scant fire burning to embers and the others prepared to move, Libor expected the lunatic to tell what he knew.

Or what the earth had whispered to him in his dreams, if he was to be believed.

"You had knowledge, exile," Vratislav prompted. "Stop preening and tell us what you know."

"Knowledge escapes the impatient, whelp," Zivadin countered, his smile nonetheless in place as he turned back on the younger orc. Vratislav snarled in frustration, but said nothing.

"Your head might escape your shoulders if you keep it up," Zdeno put in. Despite the overt threat, a note of hostility had left the berserker's voice since Libor's talk with him the previous night. Zdeno was back to his amiable self, but that mood could be broken if Zivadin spent too much time toying with the other orcs. Suljo inhaled deeply, watching the mountains to the northwest as Zivadin tried to goad the berserker.

"The earth knows much of the Rotfeast orcs," the lunatic began. He knelt and pressed his hand to the earth just outside their small fire ring. "They live beneath the earth, huddling in caves and hiding from their betters."

"Yes, we know this," Vratislav pointed out. "The elf already told us that."

"And that they eat their dead," Zivadin noted, "but that is only part of it. The Rotfeast are not like other orcs. They see in the blackness of their homes as we see in the afternoon sun. They do not fight as we do. There is no glorious war among them. They steal out in the dark of night, when the moon is new, and then they hunt. Not for elk or deer, no. That is not their way. They steal into villages in the night, taking humans, goblins, elves… and other orcs. Oh, they enjoy the taste of orc above all else, for that is their favorite food. They spit him and roast him while he still lives, turning him over their polluted fires." Zivadin paused, looking back to Vratislav with an unsettling grin. "They say it makes the flesh that much sweeter," he added ominously.

"Cowards and thieves," Vratislav scoffed. Still he could not hide the revulsion in his voice. Suljo himself did not relish the idea of finding these malformed monstrosities.

"They will never reach the Feast Halls of the One Eye like that," Zdeno quipped. "Not that I would want them there, anyway."

"They care nothing for your One Eye, fat dog," Zivadin said. Zdeno growled at the insult, but the lunatic continued. "They follow a god of darkness, of death, of plague and pestilence. Nero… no, Norall. Something like that. Nerull. Yes, that is it."

"The elf said they may not even exist any more," Libor said. "Is that true?"

"They find elves to be too troublesome," Zivadin said. He stopped, looking to the ground where he held his hand. "But they still live, striking in darkness. Against the thin blood that lives west and south. Sometimes they attack the elves, but likely the elves do not realize that the occasional missing traveler has fallen prey to them."

"The earth tells you all this?" Vratislav asked dubiously.

"More like his tribe fought the Rotfeast when they still lived," Zdeno decided. He shook his head at Zivadin. "Tricks may fool the boy, lunatic, but not me."

"Boys and chieftains, fat dog," Zivadin countered with a malicious grin. Zdeno snarled.

"I don't care if he knows from the earth or from past experience," Libor said. "There will be no more fighting between the two of you."

"He will not insult me without learning his place," Zdeno growled. Libor shook his head.

"We will need him," the chieftain pointed out. "We have an entire tribe to fight. We will need his sword, repulsive as he may be."

"He has still told us nothing we can use," Vratislav complained.

"Knowledge is for those who listen, whelp," Zivadin challenged. "Your great chieftain knows that, I am certain."

"They will fight as unscarred," Libor assumed. "Thieves in the darkness, not great warriors. We must hunt them, for they will not come to us."

"Very good, great chieftain," Zivadin said, mocking applause. Zdeno narrowed his eyes in anger, his fists clenching around his axe.

"The mountains are vast," Suljo said, moving the conversation forward before the two orcs could come to blows. Zivadin turned to the scout. "Where do you suggest we hunt for these orcs?"

"Find their victims," the exile stated, "and you will find them."


End file.
